tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36445387018682065162024-02-19T22:22:10.966-06:00Black Coffee FictionWeekly short stories to amuse and edifyWadehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08229835689380630612noreply@blogger.comBlogger161125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-22856711941486879022016-01-23T15:56:00.000-06:002016-01-23T15:56:19.613-06:00Demons - Part II
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<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
By
Bettyann Moore</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus
stood dead still, all his senses alert. He turned his head – and
his headlamp – in a slow circle. He couldn't imagine Bud,
superstitious, rabbit-scared Bud, taking off on his own. So, where'd
he get to? The passenger side door was shut; Rufus hadn't heard it
open or close.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That
don't mean nothin',” he said aloud, but not too loudly. “A guy
can get pretty het up on somethin' and never hear or see hell-all.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus
shut off the lamp and waited for his eyes to adjust. He listened
hard. The quiet was absolute. Not a rustle of critters in the grass
nor a whisper of cattails by the pond. The back of his neck prickled.
He felt like he was being watched. With slightly shaking hands, Rufus
turned on the headlamp and whipped his head around to shine the light
behind him. Something, something inky black slithered just out of
sight and back into the mist.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
shook his head and blinked a few times. Trick of the light was all.
Nothing out there.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
walked around the truck, head down, checking for footprints. Except
for his own size-16 Sorels, there were none. Bud had little feet for
such a big guy, size 9, tops. He reminded Rufus of those old-timey
toys … little egg-shaped people … Wobblers? Wobblies? No,
Weebles.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Weebles
wobble, but they don't fall down,” he said, remembering the
commercials of his childhood. He snorted just a bit, thinking how
he'd start calling Bud “Weeble”, or “WeebleBoy”. Once he
found him.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
did another walk around the truck in reverse. No sign that Bud had
gotten out to take a piss against a tire, nothing. It was full-on
dark now and there was hunting to do.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Fuck,
Bud,” Rufus cursed, “get your ass back here, pronto.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A
thought came to him. He shone his light down into the truck bed. He
just knew it had to be …
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
pulled back a stack of blue tarps and pried open the lid of the
cooler he had hidden beneath.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Damn,
thought for sure,” Rufus said. He knew that Bud would be spooked
all night unless he provided some refreshment. The six-pack of
long-necks in one of the coolers, though, was untouched. He'd hoped
that Bud found it, downed a few and, with the added courage, headed
up the road.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus
was about to hop back in the truck to drive up a ways – Bud
couldn't have gotten that far – but he pictured MarySue's sneering
glare if he came back empty-handed. He'd already made enough racket
and time was wasting.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Screw
you, Bud,” Rufus muttered. “I got this.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Screw
you, too, Rufus.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What
the … Bud? Where the hell are you?” Rufus spun around in circles,
headlamp sweeping, bouncing and landing on … nothing.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Quit
the crap, Bud,” Rufus snarled. “Where the hell are you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Here.
I think I need some help.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus
felt a tapping on his foot and nearly jumped out of his Sorels. Bud
was under the truck. Rufus crouched down and shone the light beneath.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Christ
on stick, Bud, what the hell are you doing down there? How'd you get
there? Why didn't you answer me?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus
tugged on his friend's arm and slowly dragged him out.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
seen somethin', Ruf,” Bud said, smacking the dirt off his pants.
“It was lookin' at me in the cab.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“In
the cab. Something was looking at you in the cab.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
big yellow eyes. And fangs! It had big yellow fangs, too. Wish I had
me a beer.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus
sighed. “Yellow eyes <i>and</i> yellow fangs. Gosh.” Rufus
reached into the back of the truck and pulled a long-neck from the
cooler. “Here,” he said, “chase the yellow away.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud's
eyes went wide. He snatched the bottle from Rufus' hand, unscrewed
the cap and slugged down the cold beer in one swallow.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So,
there's this <i>thing</i> with yellow eyes and yellow fangs <i>outside</i>
looking at you <i>in</i> the cab?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud
burped wetly. “Yup, 'bout pissed my pants.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Mighta
been the beer,” Rufus muttered. “So you got <i>out</i> of the cab
where the thing was with the yellow eyes and yellow fangs and hid
<i>under</i> the truck. I got that right?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud
scratched his head and screwed up his face, thinking. “Yeah …
well, no … I mean, I think I passed out.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“In
the cab.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
in the cab. You got another one of them beers?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Not
yet, not yet!” Rufus thought his brain was going to explode. “Just
tell me how you got from the cab and then under the truck.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud
clapped his big paws over his face and rubbed them up and down, up
and down like he was scrubbing his face. His seed cap bobbed on his
head.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“This
ain't a test, Bud.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud
pulled his hands away. “Might as well be cuz I ain't got no
answer,” he said, a bewildered look on his face.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Just
then the bulb in Rufus' headlamp went black.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Damn!”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Ruf,
turn that thing back on, wouldja?” Bud pleaded. He took a couple of
cautious steps toward his friend until he was practically standing on
him.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Get
back!” Rufus said, pushing Bud away. “Battery's dead and, no, I
don't have another one.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So
… so … we can go now?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
we can't go now, Bud. We come to hunt. We been messin' around too
long already. Check the glove box, might be a flashlight in there.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud
didn't have to be told twice. He groped around for the door handle,
grateful when the light in the cab came on. Sure enough there was a
small mag light and it worked, too.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Save
it,” Rufus ordered. “We might need it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Reluctantly,
Bud shut off the light, then put it in his pocket. He used it a
couple of times while the two men piled equipment onto tarps.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“We
bringing the cooler?” Bud asked. “I mean, it ain't no trouble
carryin' it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
we're not bringing the cooler, Bud,” Rufus snapped. “It'll be a
little reward. You shine me a deer, I shoot it, we clean it, bring it
back to the truck and you get you a beer. How's that?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
guess so.” Bud couldn't see it exactly, but he stared longingly at
the cooler as the two hoisted their gear and headed out across the
field.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
was a good half an hour before the two settled down to wait for deer.
Rufus sat perched about six feet high on a hang-on tree stand while
Bud sat hunkered down behind a bush just below him. Bud didn't like
looking out at the mist-covered pond, but it was better than having
it behind him.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Half
an hour, Bud,” Rufus whispered from his perch.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“For
what?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Half
an hour with no talking, belching, farting, coughing, sneezing or
teeth grinding.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud
sighed.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Or
sighing,” Rufus added. “I want quiet. In half an hour, turn on
that beam and show me what's out there. Got it?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Got
it. You gonna tell me when time's up, cuz I ain't go no watch.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I'll
tell ya.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“But
then you'd be talkin'.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus
had half a mind to shoot an arrow into the ground near Bud's head.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I'll
tell you just after half an hour.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“But
...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“And
only bucks, Bud. Bigger the better. Clear?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Clear.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Good.
Time starts now.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
but what if I see somethin' out there before then?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Half
an hour, Bud.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Half
an hour, got it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus
sat back in his seat and enjoyed the half-hour of quiet. The hang-on
couldn't beat the heated stand he had on his grandpa's property, but
easy to set up and easy to take down were more important on days like
this. A bigger guy, like Bud, might not find the mesh seat and metal
frame very sturdy, but it worked just fine for Rufus who weighed in
at 145 pounds and stood 5-foot-6 in his stocking feet. It would be
just perfect if only he could smoke; the chaw would have to do. He
resisted the urge to spit down at Bud and used his spit cup instead.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
seemed like the longest half an hour in Bud's life. It was bad enough
that he was staring out at the mist that seemed like it inched toward
him, then shrunk away. Rufus had his back, but what if that
yellow-eyed, yellow-fanged creature rose out of the pond and headed
for him? Half an hour or not, damned if he'd keep shut up then. Bud
shifted a little, trying not to make a sound. A damn rock was poking
into his knee and it was starting to hurt like hell. He guessed he
could put up with it for a while longer. At least it kept him from
falling asleep. He didn't tell Rufus, but that's what had happened
when he was under the truck. He fell asleep like a kitten under a
wood stove.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Now,”
Rufus hissed. Bud nearly jumped out of his skin, but managed to flick
on the spotlight's switch.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
All
they saw was prairie grass and a couple of low shrubs between them
and the pond. Bud swept the beam slowly over the area. There, there
was something. He could just barely hear Rufus shift in his seat
behind him. A doe, it was just a doe. She raised her head and the
light made her eyes glow an eerie yellow-green. She looked behind her
and Bud followed her gaze with the light. Bud's hands shook – there
he was, the daddy deer, eyes glowing, head held high. Had to be at
least a 12-pointer. Bud trained the light as steady as he could on
the animal's neck. He was spooked, for sure, but moved slowly,
putting his body between them and the doe.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Next
thing Bud knew, the doe was scampering off and the buck was falling
to his knees. Bud never even heard the arrow sail over his head.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Let's
go, let's go,” Rufus said, lowering himself from the stand. “Grab
a tarp!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus
shot past before Bud could even get to his feet. By the time he got
there with the tarp, Rufus had slit the buck's neck and was cutting
out the arrow.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Nice
shot,” Bud said, panting. “Look at the size of that rack!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Not
bad, not bad at all,” Rufus said, pleased. “Couple more like this
and I'll call it a good night.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
two men rolled the buck onto the tarp and dragged it back across the
field near the tree stand. Cursing and sweating, they finally managed
to get it strung up. Rufus pulled his hunting knife out of its sheath
and pointed the handle at Bud.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Do
the honors? You did some nice shining there, Bud.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Blushing,
Bud took the knife and made the long slit down the animal's belly
while Rufus held the light. The blood and offal splattered on their
boots and pants, but Bud didn't care. Rufus had said something nice.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They
lowered the carcass down onto a clean tarp and headed back to the
truck. Rufus poured ice from one of the coolers into the cavity
before they wrapped up the body good and tight and hauled it into the
truck bed. He grabbed a beer out of the other cooler for Bud, who,
for once, savored the cold brew.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“If
you gotta piss, do it here and not near the blind,” Rufus said.
“Piss long, piss hard and piss wide.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Both
men relieved themselves on opposite sides of the truck before heading
back.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Coyotes
or big cats get a whiff of that, they ain't gonna come near that
carcass,” Rufus said as he zipped up. “Same drill as before,
Bud,” he added. “Things go well, we could be out of here in a
couple hours.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud
liked the sound of that. It sure seemed to him that the mist from the
pond had gotten thicker, whiter and closer. He made sure Rufus stayed
between him and the water as they walked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Back
in their positions, the men settled in for the half-hour wait. This
time, Bud searched out a rock to kneel on; that last beer made him
powerful sleepy.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus
spent his time fantasizing about how MarySue would thank him when he
handed her a couple of big bills and told her to go shopping. In the
city. For herself. “Bring a girlfriend, have lunch,” he'd say,
and hand her another bill. Oh yeah, life would be good.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud
kept replaying Rufus' words in his head. “You did some nice shining
there, Bud,” he'd said. He imagined them walking into Grub's Pub
and Rufus announcing to one and all: “My buddy, Bud, he did some
right fine shining the other night. Barkeep, bring on the brews for
my buddy here. They're all on me.” What a night that would be.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When
the “Now!” came, Bud was ready. He shone the light like no one
had shone it before. His sweep was precise and all-encompassing. He
imagined Rufus right behind him, following every move.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And
there, there it was, the biggest buck Bud had ever laid eyes on.
Eighteen points at least, and look at that span! Had to be three
foot, maybe four at least. How did he even hold up his head?</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This
time, Bud heard the whiz of the arrow as it shot over him and in that
split second, as it sailed toward the buck's sweet spot, a doe
stepped between it and her boyfriend. The arrow pierced the doe's
tiny neck, slammed her backwards and lodged in the buck's shoulder.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Shit,
shit, shit,” Rufus yelled. Bud was on his feet already, watching as
the buck reeled away, dislodging the arrow and staggered off toward
the pond. The doe dropped hard on the ground.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Bud,
run, follow him!” Rufus shouted. “Get him and all the beer is
yours. Go, get!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Without
thinking, Bud took off. It wasn't the first time he'd done something
crazy for his friends, or for beer. As he plunged into the fog, the
light actually creating a wall of white before him, he thought of the
time when he was 14 and streaked a freshman assembly in high school
when someone promised him a 12-pack afterward. He ditched his
clothing under the bleachers and ran down the steps, across the gym
and over the stage where Mrs. Lorinda Sweet was giving her boring
talk on “personal responsibility.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He'd
spent a week in detention and his mama swore she could never face
their neighbors again, but his pop had smirked and offered him a
high-ball. That's when Bud knew he liked beer better. He drank the
12-pack in the privacy of his basement room in three days.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
aimed the lamp at his feet and followed the blood into the gloom.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus
would have followed him, would probably be in the lead, if it weren't
for the damn mesh of the hang-on. Somehow, he'd gotten his bow stuck
in the seat. He struggled to get it free in the pitch black that
surrounded him. He knew Bud was a good tracker and runner, but damn
it all, Rufus felt ridiculous perched up there trying to get free
while Bud did all the work. Plus, Bud had both of their lights.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Finally,
Rufus felt the mesh give way. He unsnapped the seat's safety belt and
lowered the bow to the ground.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Just
as the rancid scent of the big cat reached Rufus' nostrils, the
cougar was on top of him, its back claws digging into his leg. His
cry of pain and surprise came out as a bloody gurgle as the cat sunk
its teeth in his jugular. As the life oozed out of its kill, the
animal leaped down, took Rufus' boot between its powerful jaws and
pulled. Once the body was on the ground, the cat slowly dragged it
across the field to its cache in the woods. Its cubs would eat well
that night and days beyond.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
While
the cougar pulled and dragged, stopping every 20 yards or so to rest,
a depressed Bud dragged himself back to the blind, empty-handed. He'd
gotten close, close enough to see the wounded buck bound into the
pond's black water, but no way was he going in after it. Rufus would
be pissed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But
where was Rufus? The body of the doe still lay where it'd fallen. Bud
figured Rufus would've taken care of that first thing. He shined the
spotlight on the stand, but Rufus wasn't in the seat. He got closer,
then saw the blood and saw the drag marks leading toward the woods;
the huge paw prints. He knew, he knew right then what happened. It
was the creature and it got Rufus.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud
stood shining the light, first up at the stand, then back down the
drag path, then back up to the stand where his friend's blood dried
and blackened.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Tell
me what to do, Ruf,” Bud said. “I don't know what to do.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Should
he follow the path? No, that would be stupid. Go get help? Maybe. Of
course, he'd get arrested for off-season hunting and drinking. And
fined. Call without leaving his name? Maybe that was it. But he had
to get to a phone first. Did Rufus leave his cell phone in the truck
maybe? Bud headed back to truck to find out.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
first thing he caught in the beam of the spotlight didn't make sense
to him. It looked like a blue whale thrashing around in the back of
the truck. That didn't make sense, though, so he stopped and watched.
Soon, there were multiple pairs of glowing eyes staring back at him.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Coyotes!”
he said, causing the critters to leap out of the truck and tear off
into the mist. They had been feasting on the carcass beneath the blue
tarp.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
was too much for poor Bud. “Guess pissing long, hard and wide don't
do the trick,” he muttered. He approached the truck cautiously and
when he saw it was clear, he inspected the damage.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That
deer ain't worth shit no more, Ruf,” he said. He leaned his head
against the cab and shook it back and forth. “One thing's for sure,
they didn't touch no beer,” he figured. He took the whole cooler
out of the back and took it with him in the cab. By habit, he got
into the passenger seat. He clicked the locks, then guzzled three of
the beers, one after the other.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
switched on the dome light and started rooting around the cab,
looking for Rufus' phone, or keys – something – while he drank
the last beer.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Finally,
his hand latched onto something flat and hard between the console and
the driver's seat.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Ha!”
he said, dropping his empty to the floor. Bud never had a cell phone,
but he pressed button after button and finally, the phone came to
life.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Who
should I call, who should I call,” he wondered aloud. Since he knew
nothing about cell phone address books, or any numbers by heart, that
was an easy one. He hit 9-1-1 and waited. Nothing. He looked down at
the screen. “No service,” it read.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What
the hell does that mean?” he said, scratching his head. “No
shoes, no shirt, no service? No funeral services for Ruf? What?
What?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Just
then he felt the truck bounce and heard a thump in the bed. Coyotes
were back. He reached over and laid on the horn. He wished Ruf still
kept his Colt in the glove box. He wished the whole damn day were
over. With tears in his eyes, Bud whipped the useless phone out the
window. He curled up on his seat and cried the first tears he'd cried
since his daddy drowned a litter of puppies.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
was out of beer.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06079213798998281561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-4111617778732767012015-12-11T16:05:00.000-06:002015-12-11T16:09:31.304-06:00Demons - Part IBy Bettyann Moore<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApVmLM8txJjv4a9w24ml222TsrUtdMEiAfxYo_B4Kl_FdhFjMN9fUZfBdwdUuXOmI5RTfL-pY73DW3R2zn1SBE-aLcL1UVZvAqUrIhiI3m8ocbIP_lVXACdTFigjsO438P_Ln3Cts8oc/s1600/FoggyLake.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApVmLM8txJjv4a9w24ml222TsrUtdMEiAfxYo_B4Kl_FdhFjMN9fUZfBdwdUuXOmI5RTfL-pY73DW3R2zn1SBE-aLcL1UVZvAqUrIhiI3m8ocbIP_lVXACdTFigjsO438P_Ln3Cts8oc/s320/FoggyLake.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image courtesy Wiki Commons</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus drove. Rufus
always drove.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“How come you
always get to drive?” Bud complained. He took the last swig of his
beer and flung the bottle out the window where it smashed against a
live oak. He hooted and reached between his feet to pull another out
of the carton.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That's why.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What? What's
why?” Bud had already forgotten the question. He took a long pull
from the long neck.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus nodded at the
bottle in his friend's meaty hand.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You forget what
Sheriff Dalton said last time?” Rufus asked.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud shrugged and
belched, his beery breath saturating the cab of the old pickup.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“He ain't gonna do
nothin',” Bud insisted. “Granny Dalton would tan his hide if he
threw her favorite grandson in the slammer. 'Sides, I don't think
Cousin George <i>ever</i> threw no white boy in jail.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You got a point,”
Rufus conceded, “but there's always a first time. Maybe I just want
to live a little longer.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud snorted. “I
drive better when I've had a few!”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Famous last
words,” Rufus said. He squinted to see through the spider web of
cracks in the windshield and flipped on the low beams. “Shit, left
headlight's out again.” He scowled and pulled a wrinkled cigarette
out of the crumpled pack in his shirt pocket. He let it dangle
crookedly from his lips before flipping open his Zippo.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Aw, man, do ya
have to?” Bud whined. He'd just been cranking up the window, but
cranked it down again and waved his hand in the air. “LouAnn's
gonna think I started up again.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Just blame it on
me,” Rufus said, blowing a smoke ring toward Bud's head.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I usually do,”
Bud mumbled. He coughed and stuck his head out the window. “Where
we goin' to anyway?”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Up a piece,”
Rufus said, nodding toward the road.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Up a piece where?
How far?” Bud was getting suspicious. “'Thought you wanted to
shine in Stewyville Holler. Ton a deer there, some nice bucks, too.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“We ain't
shining.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“We ain't?”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Nope,” Rufus
said, scuttling the cigarette butt out his window. “We're shinin'
<i>and</i> shootin'.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud let out a low
whistle. They'd hunted together off-season before – plenty of folks
paid good money for off-season meat, hides and racks, but Rufus
already served three times for it. Fourth time would mean big bucks
and big time. And Rufus sure as hell didn't have his license back yet
to begin with. Bud shook his head.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What's up, Ruf?”
he asked.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus pulled out his
last cigarette, crumpled the package and tossed it out the window.
This time, Bud didn't object when he lit up.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Aw, it's
MarySue,” Rufus said. “She's got a bee in her bonnet.” He made
his voice into a high, nasally whine. “'I ain't had a pair of new
shoes since Melvina got married two years ago! We ain't been anywhere
since then neither! When you gonna find a job? I'm sick of this, I'm
sick of that … blah, blah, blah.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud shook his head
in commiseration. “Women,” was all he said. He knew better to say
anything against MarySue, only Rufus could do that. Bud made the
mistake just once and ended up with a broken nose. He eyed his
friend.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So, what's the
plan and how come you didn't let on?”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus cut him a
look. “Miller Road,” he said.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Bullshit, no way,
Ruf. I ain't goin' down no Miller Road.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Com'n, Bud, you
don't believe that shit, do ya? Ghosts and demons rising out of the
fog, disappearing horses?”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“And riders,
disappearing riders. Seen it with my own two, you know that.” Bud
was wishing he hadn't finished the last of the long necks.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“How many long
necks you drink that night?” Rufus sneered.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Not enough,”
Bud said, hunching over, his hands between his knees, “not enough.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He still had
nightmares. Him and Jonny Durbin, cutting up, riding side-by-side
through ravines and pastures, passing the 'shine between them. Until
he saw the mist rising from Miller Pond, Bud had no idea where they
were. They were still well away from the pond itself, but its fog
roiled out toward them. Bud pulled back on the reins, stopping just
shy of the thickening mist, but Jonny kept charging ahead. The fog
seemed to part for the horse and rider, then slam shut behind them.
It was the last anyone ever saw them.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“People don't just
disappear unless they have a mind to,” Rufus said. “Maybe Jonny
had a mind to.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud had heard all
the rumors before – Jonny and some little gal the next county over,
money missing from Durbin Hardware – didn't matter, Bud saw what he
saw.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You don't need me
along,” he said. “Just let me out here and I'll hitch back.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“In a pig's eye,”
Rufus said. “I need you to do the shinin' – I'll do the shootin'.
You gotta help me dress 'em, too. I need at least four.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Four!” Bud gave
another low whistle. “First shot and the rest'll run off.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Using the bow,
it's quieter. Besides, we got all night. I got corn, I got a salt
lick … they'll come back.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“But why Miller
Road? Stewyville Holler has a passel of 'em, I tol' ya.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Miller Road
because your cousin George and his deputies are chicken shit, too.
They ain't likely to messin' into our business.” Just then Rufus
saw something come slinking out of the ditch. “Cat!” he yelled.
He stomped on the gas and aimed the pickup toward the creature.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud braced his hand
against the dash. “It's a <i>black</i> cat, fool!” he hollered.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“All the better,”
Rufus growled through gritted teeth. Rufus hated cats, especially
black ones. A black cat sucked the life out of his baby sister when
he was just a boy, he was sure, and that sucked the life out of his
mama. Crib death, they said, but he knew better.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus' aim was true.
The old pickup's right front tire rolled over the cat's midsection
with a barely detectable bump, like hitting a rock or a slight rise
in the road.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Shit, man,” Bud
said, looking back. “Cursed for life is what we are, cursed for
life.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It dead?” Rufus
asked.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Flatter than
Becky Sue Cropp in a two-piece,” Bud said. He turned back just in
time to see the nose of the truck enter a thick cloud of fog as if it
were being sucked inside. Time, movement and sound seemed to stop as
the gray-white vapor enveloped them.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rufus kept steady
hands on the steering wheel and a light foot on the gas pedal while
Bud rocked silently in his seat, his hands tucked beneath him, his
mouth hanging open. It was almost magical; they were moving, but it
was like they were standing still.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Straight and narrow
with low guard rails, Miller Road passed directly over Miller Pond,
slicing it in two. No one knew how or why the fog formed and it
happened during all times of the year. It pressed down so hard on
them that Rufus half expected it to start crushing the truck. He
wasn't spooked, though, until the cab started shaking.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You feel that?”
he asked. He got no answer. “Bud? You feel that?”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I-I-I c-c-can't
b-b-b-breathe,” Bud finally said. Rufus cut Bud a look; the cab
wasn't shaking them, Bud was shaking the cab, he was shivering so
hard.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Easy, Bud,”
Rufus said. He resisted an urge to put a steadying hand on his
friend's leg, but there were some things a guy just didn't do. Other
than breaking Bud's nose that one time, he'd never actually touched
him on purpose.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And then, just like
that, they were clear. One second they couldn't even see the front of
the truck and the next, Rufus was cranking the wheel hard left to
avoid going into the ditch that appeared out of nowhere. He pulled to
the shoulder and cut the engine.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hoo-boy, that was
sumpthin', wasn't it?” he said.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bud kept staring at
path of weak yellow light from the headlight, but he had finally
stopped shaking. “When we go home,” he said through his teeth,
“we go straight ahead and not back there.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That's 30 miles
outta … okay, fine,” Rufus said. He'd deal with that later, right
now he had some shooting to do.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
While Bud got
himself together, Rufus cut the lights and went around to the truck
bed. If they were just shining deer, they could use the truck-mounted
spotlight, but Rufus wanted to get clear of the truck. His hand-helds
would do, unless Bud was still shaking. He put on a head lamp and
hoisted the sack of corn over his shoulder and cradled the salt lick.
Fog or not, the deer would come to the pond to drink, he reckoned, so
he walked about a 100 feet out and dropped the lick, and then back
toward the mist where he scattered the corn. A small stand of trees
would provide good cover. He hurried back to the truck to get his
gear, hoping Bud had gotten his shit together.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But Bud wasn't
there.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06079213798998281561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-82594220921026422982015-10-16T10:43:00.001-05:002015-10-16T10:43:06.096-05:00The Roommates <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGmMNxCsM-B-12CDNgOnHbwz2t1Jj8PpYlPZFQYDT3bnQBaTvJBo-KMNxQBJnydFIoNBjaxRdBc6AvhvWvbc348sfAoX65FDvAhVud6QSrjIqhBmRWLoW95UEa7_CAfnBXmYFU_mF4i5g/s1600/GoldfishDroganeys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGmMNxCsM-B-12CDNgOnHbwz2t1Jj8PpYlPZFQYDT3bnQBaTvJBo-KMNxQBJnydFIoNBjaxRdBc6AvhvWvbc348sfAoX65FDvAhVud6QSrjIqhBmRWLoW95UEa7_CAfnBXmYFU_mF4i5g/s320/GoldfishDroganeys.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image by Fanghong via <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:GoldfishDroganeys.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Common</a>s</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><i>Author's Note: The first part of this story was previously published on the blog. You can find it <a href="http://blackcoffeefiction.blogspot.com/2015/07/vikings-arent-dumb-tale-of-afterlife.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Back at the house, I managed to pass
through the door on the third try. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"So was I killed here? In the
house?" I asked Darius.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">He flopped to the floor and stretched
out. His tail thumped against the floor in a manner I took to mean he was
thinking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Yes, I believe you were. I wasn't
around at the time."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">I stared at him for a moment, waiting
for him to go on. He stared back at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"And?" I prompted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"And what?" he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"And where were you?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">He sighed. "I was out doing
business. It's not like I have any obligation to see what you were up to at all
hours of the day, Roy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"What business was it you were
doing?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"My own." He gave his tail a
mighty thump. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Okay. But I was alive when you
left?'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">He sighed. "You had gone out. When
I arrived later, you were transitioning into a Monad in the bathroom."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"How long was that?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"I don't know. It's not like I was
buried with a watch. No more than a day."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"I need to sit down." I
lowered myself to the hardwood floor. "Wish I had a chair." I got the
impression that Darius was laughing at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"What?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Your furniture is still here, you
just need to adjust your phase."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Adjust my phase."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"You're all in the afterlife now,
but you can manifest in the mundane world by just concentrating on the details
you remember. Then you can interact with the mundane on a limited level."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Like a poltergeist?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Walk before you run, Roy, but
yes. If you're strong enough. As a vengeful spirit, you have the potential to
be very strong indeed. But be careful, if you phase in too much you'll become
visible to astrally sensitive creatures: dogs, kids, cats, and the odd
psychic."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Really? That'd be neat. I can go
scare the bejesus out of my old boss at the shareholders’ meeting.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"That'd be a stretch, Roy. You're
limited in the mundane to locations with high personal and emotional meaning.
For most of us, it’s limited to the home we lived in or the location of our
physical remains. Your office doesn't qualify."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Okay, so how do I start?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"You want to sit? Picture your
house in your mind, and walk through it. Remember your couch; it’s placement
relative to the rest of the room. Remember what's in the other rooms, the color
of the towels on the racks, the dishes in the cupboards, the shoes under the
bed. The more details you remember, the easier it will be."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">I did as he said, remembering my ratty
brown couch that I had never gotten around to replacing, the way the springs on
the left side gave and the left arm’s matted nap from too much wear and the stain
from the incident with the chicken wings. I pictured myself sitting there,
reaching for the TV remote. When I opened my eyes, my home was filled with its
furniture; not only the couch, but the TV, the ottoman, my off-kilter floor
lamp, and the TV remote stuck between the couch cushions. I glanced behind me
into the kitchen and found the sink filled with dirty dishes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Oh, I wish I had done those
before I died."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Darius hopped on the back of the couch
and looked over. "Really? That's your big regret?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"I guess not." I walked over
to the sink and tried lifting a coffee cup out. It seemed stuck so I gave it a
jerk. Then another. No matter how hard I pulled, it stayed there as if it were
set in concrete. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Physically changing the world is
way beyond Monad 101," Darius said, jumping on the counter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Hey! Get off there," I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Why? Afraid I'm going to leave
phantasmagoric cat germs all over?" He snorted. "As if I haven't been
doing this everyday for the past few years."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"I wish I hadn't heard that. Next
thing you'll be telling me ghosts of all those filthy cockroaches I killed
through the years have been taking their revenge.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Hey!” said a voice. I looked down
to see a cockroach scuttling out from under the refrigerator.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Who's that?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Oh, that's Ujin, ignore
him."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Ignore me?" The cockroach’s
antennae shook in Darius' direction. "Me? You fuzzy mongrel! Dog!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Darius blinked and turned away.
"He was once a horseman of the Mongol horde. Got demoted down to cockroach
and has been that way ever since."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"I made their blood feed the grass
and set fire to their cities until the smoke blotted the sun. Each night I
rested on the bellies of their wives and daughters," Ujin cackled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Never learned the error of his
ways?" I asked Darius.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"He thinks being a cockroach is a
step up."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"I am always armed and armored.
The world is my food bag, I have hundreds of females, thousands of sons, and I
shall live forever!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">I shook my head. "I hate to break
it to you, but you're dead just like Darius and me."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"<i>Au contraire, </i>meatbag, I
am very much alive."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">I glanced at Darius, who flicked an ear
in annoyance. "Cockroaches, unlike other living beings, can phase between
the mundane and the ethereal. That's why they're so hard to kill."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"So you're saying they're a kind
of anti-ghost?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Ujin cackled. "You see? I am invincible!"
He turned and shook his rear abdomen at me. I lifted my foot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"I have a size twelve that would
prove you wrong," I said. I brought my foot down but Ujin faded just as I
was about to crush him. My heel came down empty air and then went numb as it
struck the tile. Ujin's carapace appeared a foot to the side and the little bug
waved his antennae at me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Bah! That only works on the slow
ones, stupid human! Armored, swift, good-looking, and oh yes, radiation-proof.
When this ball goes nuclear, I and my brethren will dance the Dance of Victory!"
Ujin began a dance that was half skitter, half swaying in the air. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"He always like this?" I
asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"He's an annoying little bug.
Ignore him, and he'll go away."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"<i>I said the roof! The roof! The
roof is on fire</i>!" Ujin sang.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"I see what you're saying," I
said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"<i>We don't need no water, let
the motherfu—</i>"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"So did you see me die?" I
said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Ujin paused. "Yes! I saw the whole
thing! How unfortunate the other humans took your body away before my horde
could properly feed from it."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">I crouched down to Ujin's level and
looked into his black eyes. "Who was it? Who killed me?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Ujin scuttled back and waved a
claw-tipped leg. "It was another human."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Someone I knew? Someone you
recognized? A man, a woman?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Ujin raised both front legs in an
approximation of a shrug. "How should I know? You meatbags all look
alike."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">I stood and kicked at him. He phased
out at the last moment and my foot rebounded off the refrigerator door. Ujin
reappeared in a corner and laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"You have to do better than that, egg
bait!" He scurried under cupboard’s kick plate, cackling all the way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"I'll kill him." I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Better to just leave him alone. I
do."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Maybe I should be asking if there
are any other spirits haunting this house with me."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Darius hopped down and trotted to the
hallway. "Perhaps you'd better follow me."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">My cat led me to a goldfish floating
upside down in the corner of my office. The gold and black-flecked fish had
those eyes that bulged like over-inflated soccer balls. Its mouth opened and
closed like it was gasping for air, but its gills rippled normally. I realized
it was muttering to itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"What's that?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"That's Conrad."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"I don't recall ever having a goldfish."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Previous owners. This was their
daughter's room."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Right. I remembered having to paint the
walls three accursed times before the pink stopped bleeding though a more
sensible eggshell color. "So let me guess. He died here too?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Apparently."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Why is he hanging in the air like
that?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"He's thinking."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Thinking."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Yes, he's a philosopher."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Really."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Actually, he's an atheist like
you. You two should have a lot in common."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"I'm not an atheist," Conrad
said in a deep voice, "I'm agnostic with a 51 percent certainty there is
no guiding hand on the tiller of the universe. I believe also there is a 21
percent probability that there is a hand on the tiller but the being’s motives
are unfathomable, a 17 percent chance we live in a multiverse conceived by a
multitude of deity-like beings vying for control of us in some mysterious game,
and an 11 percent chance this is a computer simulation and we are just stuck in
a buffer."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Darius flicked an ear sideways.
"He makes it sound like he calculated that mathematically rather than
pulling it from his arse."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Conrad flipped over and swam through
the air to Darius. "I think the more interesting question is how a being
like myself acquired the concept of higher math in the first place. My corporeal
brain barely had the processing power to handle eating, breathing, and
flinching when that horrid creature tapped on my glass." He turned and
bobbed in the air once. "Nice to meet you, Roy. As Stormchaser-Prime here
mentioned, I am known as Conrad."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">I nodded at him. "So you've been
in my office since I moved in?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Unfortunately. We really should
talk about your internet browsing habits sometime, Roy."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Funny how an embarrassed ghost's face
still flushes hot. I cleared my throat, also an unnecessary habit carried over
from life. "Did you see anything the day I was murdered?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Conrad swam in circles around my head.
"I'm afraid not. I was distracted that day with Nietzsche's concept of
eternal recurrence and if that would doom me to repeat my former existence in a
one gallon world. Would I'd willingly go back to that —'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Conrad, you're doing it
again," Darius said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Conrad shook himself and turned to
hover a foot from my nose. "Sorry. Where was I? I didn't see anything, but
did hear something dragging through the house." Conrad whipped his tail
and shot back from me. "Oh my. You're smoking."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">I looked down. Gray wisps curled out
from my clothes. I slapped my palms all around my body, trying to locate the
fire. Darius' fur puffed out and he hissed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Darius, what's happening to
me?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">"Roy, I'm afraid you're being
cremated."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Wadehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08229835689380630612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-51249871982849874472015-08-21T12:47:00.000-05:002015-10-16T10:43:12.886-05:00Tiny MerciesBy Bettyann Moore<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbP5UGuGEOKwlLMx3UEnaLlAO6czoYdb5uLt9CwuDlGnSWSGXthY-5zxmAL-7C2O-mrDYI6H7ZhOqhJqmspBM2oD1f2u5gCeH8i3HB1tWueGJN8ZcG3zq5Z-Bk9JyVr6HMb4MBNebrb74/s1600/broadtailAndflower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbP5UGuGEOKwlLMx3UEnaLlAO6czoYdb5uLt9CwuDlGnSWSGXthY-5zxmAL-7C2O-mrDYI6H7ZhOqhJqmspBM2oD1f2u5gCeH8i3HB1tWueGJN8ZcG3zq5Z-Bk9JyVr6HMb4MBNebrb74/s320/broadtailAndflower.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rare,
progressive and untreatable.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
White repeated the words over and over.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Rare,
progressive and untreatable,” she said, then gave a wry snort.
“Reminds me of that old movie with the kid and the scarecrow.
“Lions, tigers and … what was that other one?” she mused.
“Right, lions, tigers and bears, oh my. Rare, progressive and
untreatable, oh my!”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Talking
to herself was just something Ardys did. There was no other human in
the house, no cat, no dog, and there never would be.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
pushed her chair away from the desk and powered down the last
computer for the millionth and last time. She stood, then grabbed
onto the desk for support as hot-white stars of light flashed in her
vision. Her failing vision. The vision, the doctors said, that would
be gone within a year.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
stood there, swaying, until the flashes died down and her sight, what
was left of it, cleared. She noticed that another little star, like
light shining through a tear in black fabric, had settled into place
like others before it. Soon, she knew, there would be nothing but
white stars.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Picking
her way slowly across her basement computer lab, Ardys’ heart
hammered in her chest and her hands shook. The blindness to come was
just half of it. For the first time in 30 years, she would be
separated from her beloved machines, her job, her lifeline – her
life. It was the hardest choice she’d ever had to make. She liked
to think it was a choice, anyway.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Get
out of that basement and away from those confounded screens,” Dr.
Murphy told her. “Get out, take a look around, see what there is to
see <i>while you can still see it</i>!” He stopped, knowing he
might have been too abrupt and patted her hand. “Seriously, Ardys,
dear, drink in some of the beauty out there.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Good
ol’ Doc Murphy,” Ardys said, gripping the railing and climbing
the stairs. “He always did have a lousy bedside manner.” Lousy or
not, Murphy was the only person on the planet who cared about Ardys
White. She had no friends, no family and, while she wouldn’t go so
far as to call him “friend”, Doc Murphy was the closest thing she
had to one.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Home-schooled
long before it was trendy, at least until her knowledge far exceeded
that of her parents, Ardys never longed for a close friend or a
boyfriend. Rather, she built her first computer from scratch and from
then on was lost in the world of data.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
After
her parents died in a fiery car wreck that also killed a family of
four raccoons, Ardys clomped down the basement steps and planned.
Over the phone, she hired a crew to dismantled the rumpus room – a
room her father had built to encourage Ardys to invite friends over
to play pool, to listen to music, anything – and had them
meticulously follow her computer-drafted plans for a state-of-the-art
computer lab. It was a thing of beauty.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Government
and corporate projects rolled steadily in; some top secret, some not.
If it weren’t for having to travel down the mountain to buy
groceries and other necessities, which she did in the wee, dark hours
of the morning, Ardys would never have to leave the house. After the
advent of the Internet, she hardly left the house at all.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
stood before the family room picture window and contemplated the
draperies, draperies that hadn’t been opened since her parents had
died 30 years before. Small fissures had opened here and there in the
heavy, dusty fabric, letting in small leaks of light. Ardys tugged on
the cord and sneezed. As dust sparkled in the sunlight and sifted
down over her head, Ardys shut her eyes, then slowly opened them to
survey the neglected back acreage.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Not
seeing much beauty out there, Doc,” she said. It was early May and
the dry, brown grasses were only just revealing small patches of
green. Downslope, the lodge-pole pine forest appeared to have gotten
closer to the house; small evergreens marched toward it, dotting the
field. Ardys frowned when she spied chimney smoke on the next hill
over. There’d never been houses there before.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
sighed. A feeling she couldn’t identify – empty, hollow –
washed over her. She thought she saw movement through the distant
trees. She blinked, then blinked again. Nothing. She shut her eyes
and leaned her forehead against the warm glass. When she opened them
again, she saw a brown shape emerging from the woods. It paused, then
advanced cautiously. Another shape followed. Then another. Deer, she
realized, a buck and three does. They lowered their heads and pulled
up the tender green grasses. One began nibbling on a pine.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Loneliness,
she realized. It was loneliness she felt.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
didn’t go out that day, nor the next. There were plans to be made.
Hearing Doc’s voice in her head, Ardys compromised and left the
tattered curtains open and dutifully looked out now and then.
Sunrise, she conceded, truly was beautiful, especially when there
were a few clouds. Before the sun rose over the top of the next
mountain over, its light cast deep red, orange and even purple
shadows. She had no camera, but it was ridiculous to think about
capturing the image; her memory would have to suffice. For
everything.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“When
was the last time I was in those woods?” Ardys wondered aloud as
she stood at the edge of the meadow two days later. “Ten years ago?
Twenty?” She couldn’t remember. She did recall how cool and
silent they were and how rocky the land was. She glanced down at her
feet. Ardys didn’t own any boots, but had found a pair of hikers at
the bottom of her mother’s closet. The leather was stiff and
brittle and they had red shoelaces, for crying out loud, but they’d
have to do.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Few
sounds disturbed the quiet as Ardys followed what she assumed was a
deer path, given all the green/black pellets along its length. A dog
barked somewhere; distance and direction were hard to determine in
the mountains. She heard some chirping in the trees, but would be
hard-pressed to identify the birds – if that was what they were.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Could
be insects for all I know,” she said. She stopped to pick up a
fairly straight, weathered branch, its smooth length shot with
intricate worm-shaped impressions. She remembered, then, that her
father always carried a walking stick whenever he set off on a hike.
“To beat off the bears,” he liked to say. Ardys had forgotten
about bears.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
found the sturdy stick comforting. “I guess at some point I should
dip its tip in white paint,” she muttered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
forest was as she remembered it only taller. Its floor was littered
with branches, pine needles and sometimes whole trees. The land
sloped more dramatically the deeper she went. At one point she
stopped abruptly, not able to identify what it was she saw under one
of the wider, taller trees. It was a pile of something, at least six
inches deep and six feet across. She poked at it with her stick,
cocked her head and pondered. Just then a pine cone dropped right at
her feet and she nearly jumped out of her boots as a gray squirrel in
the branch above her head began to loudly scold her. It scampered
off, jumping from tree to tree, still chattering as Ardys laughed.
She’d found the tree where the squirrel had torn apart the pine
cones it had gathered, looking for the tender seeds within. Judging
from the size of the pile, that squirrel and others like it had been
using it for years and years.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
There
was still some ways to go, but suddenly Ardys was bone-tired.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Face
it, girl,” she said, retracing her steps, “you haven’t exactly
run any marathons lately.” She threw back her head and hooted at
that, picturing how she’d throw bags of garbage into the trunk of
her car to drive them to the end of the driveway for collection every
other week.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As
she came out of the gloom of the forest, Ardys braced herself for
another onslaught of stars, but there were none. There was a buzzing,
though, like the low, slow buzzing of a bee, only louder.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Great,
now my ears are going.” Ardys moaned. Then she ducked as the
buzzing got even louder and closer, brushing past her ear. What she
saw streaking past was much too big for any bee, though. “Hey!”
she cried as it zoomed by again, this time dipping down toward her
feet. She swatted and waved her arms, then stumbled on a rock and
fell – hard – on her bottom.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Persistent
little devils, aren’t they? Are you okay?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
didn’t know if she was more shaken up by the buzzing, the fall, or
the voice that came out of nowhere. She struggled to her feet as a
figure half-ran, half-slid down the ridge to her left. With the help
of her walking stick, Ardys was upright by the time the person
reached her side.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then
she was down again.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
stars exploded, harder, faster than they ever had before. To Ardys
they sounded like thunder echoing through the mountains. She held her
hands over her eyes, knees pressed against her chest, and waited for
it to pass. She was only vaguely aware that someone crouched next to
her, rubbing her back.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As
the attack subsided, Ardys slowly lowered her hands from her eyes and
even more slowly, opened them. The tanned, deeply-lined face of a
woman peered closely at her, concern etching the brow beneath her
seed cap.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Damn,
you don’t look so good,” the woman said. “Maybe just sit there
a while, huh? Anything broken? Damn birds.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,”
Ardys said, “I don’t think so. My backside’s a little sore is
all. Birds? What birds?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
woman rested back on her heels. She wore a flannel shirt, battered
jeans and well-worn hiking boots. Gray curls snuck out from under her
cap.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That
little bugger who was dive-bombing you … the Broad-tail?” she
said. “Probably going for your red shoelaces. She don’t mean no
harm.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Broad-tail.
Shoelaces. She.” The woman seemed to be speaking another language.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Female
Broad-tail hummingbird,” the woman said. “I’m Lila, by the way.
If it were a male, you’d-a heard him a mile off. They’re such
show-offs. You new to the mountains?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
shook her head. A hummingbird. How come she never knew there were
hummingbirds here? “No,” she said, “I’ve lived right here all
my life.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lila
stood and held out her hand. “Huh, how <span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;">’</span>bout
that,” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
hesitated, then took the offered hand.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“We’ll
do this nice and slow,” Lila said, pulling gently.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Once
she was on her feet again, Ardys held onto the other woman’s hands
for a few seconds. There were some stars, but just a few. She let go,
staggering a bit.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Say,”
Lila said, gripping Ardys’ hand and wrapping an arm around her
shoulders. “How <span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;">’</span>bout we get
you up to the house? Maybe a cup of tea? Put your feet up?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>God,
how I hate this,</i> Ardys thought. <i>I hate being grateful. I hate
</i>having<i> to be grateful. I hate having to rely on someone. I
hate losing my privacy.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That
sounds good,” she said, adding, almost painfully, “thank you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
woman was pushier than Ardys was resistant and before Ardys knew it,
she was sitting on the couch with her feet up and a stranger was
rummaging around in her kitchen, making tea.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“A
nice cup of tea is always good for what ails ya,” Lila was saying
as the kettle sang.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Not
for what ails me,” Ardys said, then realized she’d spoken aloud.
Lila gave her a hard look as she carried the tea things to the living
room.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Didn’t
know how you took it, so I brought it all,” Lila said, setting the
tray on the coffee table. “Lemon, milk, sugar, honey ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
like it plain,” Ardys said. A few beats later, after she dusted off
her manners, added, “Thank you for going through the trouble.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No
trouble, no trouble at all,” Lila said, pouring two cups of tea.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
had been hoping the woman would make the tea, then leave. She refused
to chastise herself for the unneighborly thought. At least she hadn’t
said it aloud.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You
ain’t offered, so I’m asking,” Lila said. “What is it that
you’re called?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Half
a dozen things ran through Ardys’ head … computer nerd, loner,
woman going blind … before she realized what Lila was asking.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
it’s Ardys,” she finally said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You
got no feeders, Ardys,” Lila said, settling into a dusty armchair.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Excuse
me?” The woman always seemed to be talking in a foreign language.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hummer
feeders,” Lila said. “Most folks up here have two or three,
though the Tylers up on Madge Circle got at least a dozen.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
didn’t know what to say to that. Lila didn’t seem to notice.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
put mine out the end of March and don’t take <span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;">’</span>em
down <span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;">’</span>til late September in case
of stragglers. A course I got to bring them in at night when it’s
freezing, but I do that anyway on account of the bears.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
blinked at her guest over the rim of her cup.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“They’re
pure-D fun to watch,” Lila said. “They all have their own little
personalities, you know? The boys are mean little buggers, but you
ain’t seen mean <span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;">’</span>til the
Rufous show up in July.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Rufous,”
Ardys repeated, hoping understanding would follow. It didn’t.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Named
for their color, of course,” Lila went on. “Red-orange with an
orange gorget that flashes in the sun, at least the boys. The girls
are just green with some rufous and tiny patch of yellow on the
gorget. Funny how in nature the boys are flashier than the girls.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys’
head was spinning. The woman showed no signs of winding down. Ardys
set down her empty cup and gave a long, barely disguised yawn.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It
ain’t really that they’re mean,” Lila continued, oblivious to
her host’s signal. “They’re just doing what nature taught <span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;">’</span>em
to do. I guess saying they’re mean is, whatchallit,
anthro-whatever.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Anthropomorphizing.”
Ardys couldn’t help herself.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
that. Still, when they’re swooping and chasing, it’s hard not
to.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Enough
was enough. This was the longest time Ardys had spent in the company
of another person in years.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Very
interesting, Lila,” she said, yawning and stretching again. “But
I really think I could use a little nap, so …”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lila
scrambled to her feet. “Lordy,” she said, “old ladies can go
on, can’t they?” She didn’t seem to take offense. “I’ll
just put these things back in the kitchen ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No!”
Ardys said a tad too forcefully. “I mean, I’ll take care of them
later.” She got to her feet, hoping for a couple of reasons that
there were no stars. There weren’t. “Thanks again for coming to
my rescue and making the tea … and the hummingbird lesson,” she
added.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It’s
what neighbors are for,” Lila said. “Mountain folk like their
privacy, but that don’t mean we can’t be neighborly when it’s
called for. You take care, now. I’ll see myself out.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When
the woman took a hint, she took a hint. And, finally, she was gone.
Ardys sighed and eased herself back down on the couch. She really
could use a nap.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
was hard for Ardys to wake up in the morning and not head right down
to the basement. And she would, too, had she not scrubbed the
computers’ memories, then destroyed their hard-drives, one by one.
It was the hardest thing she had ever done, so far. She rolled over
on her side and blearily eyed the brown bottles on the bed stand. A
harder thing lay ahead of her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Each
night she lay for hours enumerating all the reasons why she, Ardys
White, could not live a life of blindness. And every morning, rather
than reaching for those bottles, she got out of bed. Why, she wasn’t
sure. Her best guess was that it was a primal survival instinct held
by even the lowliest of creatures. That, or she was just scared
shitless.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Once
again, Ardys crawled out of bed, pulled on a pair of sweatpants and
went to make tea. She didn’t brush her teeth nor her hair. What was
the point? Even so, daytime was when she unraveled the night’s
rationales, turned them on their heads and called them excuses.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
wasn’t too old to learn Braille. The house could be adapted and
people paid to take care of things she couldn’t. She could get used
to having a service dog, really. Too bad dogs couldn’t be taught to
drive, or use a computer. Surely other blind people lived in the
mountains. What did they do?
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“They
have families,” she said, pouring her tea, “friends.” Suddenly
overwhelmed, Ardys did what she did best, pushed the thoughts aside
and avoided them. She took her teacup outside to the back porch. The
sun was just coming up as she sat in one of the ancient Adirondack
chairs. She quickly stood back up, though, when she realized she was
sitting on something.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What
the?” The thick, well-worn paperback book sported a red-orange bird
with a bright orange throat on the cover. It was the strangest
looking, but also the most beautiful creature Ardys had ever seen.
“<i>Hummingbirds of North America</i>,” she read. “Gosh, I
wonder who put this here?” she said, not wondering at all.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
was afraid of this,” Ardys said, setting her cup on one wide arm
and the book on the other. “Once you give an inch ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
stopped mid-sentence when she saw the feeders. There were two of them
hanging on either end of the porch from hooks Ardys could swear were
never there before. They glowed fire-engine red in the increasing
sunlight, swaying slightly in the small morning breeze.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The
nerve!” Ardys cried. “I thought mountain folk prided themselves
on keeping to themselves!” She glanced around, suddenly
self-conscious about talking aloud. Someone capable of hanging two
feeders in the dead of night is perfectly capable, she figured, of
skulking about in broad daylight as well.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
took a sip of her tea and spit it back into the cup.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Ugh,
cold already,” she said. She picked up the book instead, finding a
note tucked inside.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
slipped on the thick reading glasses that dangled from cord around
her neck. “Hang them and they will come,” she read. “The recipe
is four parts water to one part sugar, but don’t add any of that
horrible red food coloring to it, it’s bad for the birds! You can
read all about it in the book. And don’t forget about the bears!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
groaned. There it was, one of the reasons she disliked the human
animal so much: the tyranny of gift-giving. It was bad enough that
people gave you “gifts” of things you simply didn’t want, but
then they felt they could dictate how you used – or didn’t use –
those gifts. And what about the damn bears anyway?</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
really should nip this in the bud,” Ardys said. “Before I know it
the old woman will be trying to drag me to bake sales and bridge
games.” She struggled out of the uncomfortable chair and went to
one of the feeders, fully intending to take it and the other one
down. She froze in place, though, when she heard a low humming.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Less
than a few feet away, a tiny, iridescent green bird warily approached
one of the feeders, its wings a green blur. It started, stopped,
started, stopped, then finally dipped it needle-like bill into a fake
flower on the base of the feeder, its body bent in an impossible
S-shape as it hovered and drank. It pulled back a bit, seemed to look
right at Ardys, then dipped once more. This time it settled on the
rim of the feeder, its wings finally at rest.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
would you look at that,” Ardys marveled. Its claws – if that’s
what they were called – were no thicker than some of the wires
Ardys used to build circuit boards. Its green feathers sparkled in
the sun as its sides heaved in and out as it drank.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Out
of nowhere came a high trilling sound and Ardys instinctively ducked
as another bird flew at the one on the feeder, barely missing it as
it zoomed past and up. The little one hung on and seemed to drink
more greedily. The other bird made another pass, then another, the
high-pitched trilling accompanied by a zooming sound like kids make
when they’re pretending to fly a plane. After the third pass, and
seemingly upset about being ignored, it fluttered in close, tail
feathers spread wide, chirping wildly. Its throat, set off by a
brilliant white collar, sparkled the color of fire, the color of
warning. The first bird lifted off the feeder and mimicked the
red-throat’s stance, but took off, the other in close pursuit.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
was speechless. She shook her head to clear it, then stumbled back to
the chair and sank down. She felt … she felt <i>privileged</i> to
have witnessed that short display, even if she didn’t know what was
going on, exactly. Some territorial thing, it seemed. What had Lila
said? The boy birds were “mean” and “show-offs” and you could
“hear them a mile away”.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And
then there he was, approaching the feeder with none of the caution
the other exhibited. He zoomed in, making that odd trilling sound,
landed right in front of a fake flower and started drinking. Every
once in a while, he’d pull out his bill and look around, putting
his throat on display. Then he simply lifted off and trilled away.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
couldn’t help herself. After first moving her chair closer to the
feeders, she slipped on her glasses and started paging through the
book, her attention drawn away every time another drama played out at
the feeders.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Although
she paid the price for all that reading when she experienced the
worst attack she’d ever had later that evening, Ardys didn’t
regret a minute of it. The birds were fascinating: from their
non-stop migration over the Gulf of Mexico, to the average wing beat
(50 times per second!), to their mating rituals (a male broad-tail
won’t bother a female at the feeder if she’s one that he has
mated with), to its incredible lifespan for a creature with such a
high metabolism (10 years!).
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
If
she were lucky, Ardys could expect to see the Rufous’ migrate
through, as well as the Calliope with its funky long-feathered gorget
(gorget, not throat!) and maybe even one of the largest hummers, the
Blue-throated, or the Magnificent. What a great name, Ardys thought.
She was already getting better at telling the Broad-tails from the
Black-chins.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
That
night for the first time in a long time, Ardys fell instantly to
sleep. Tiny birds flitted, darted and swooped through her dreams
throughout the night.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
To
her credit, Lila kept her distance. In fact, it was two months later
before Ardys saw her neighbor, even though – much to Ardys’
surprise – she actually looked forward to seeing her again. As it
was, Ardys had to figure out on her own how to make nectar and
learned the hard way about the bears. They loved hummingbird nectar
and had no compunctions about climbing right up onto the porch to
empty (and break) feeders. Ardys bought several more and never forgot
to bring them in at night from then on.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Finally,
a third of the way through July, Lila rapped on Ardys’ door and
sang out “Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?” By the time Ardys opened the
door, the old woman was inspecting the new feeders, which sported six
flowers rather than four.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Pretty
fancy-schmanzy!” Lila declared. “I take it the bears got the
other ones?” She winked and smiled as Ardys blushed. “Happens to
all of us at one time or other,” Lila assured her, “but usually
only once.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The
extra holes have come in handy,” Ardys said, nodding her head at
the feeders. At least a dozen birds vied for position.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Same
at my house,” Lila said, “and since it’s July 10, I thought
it’d be fun to be here instead of there.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
woman still talked in riddles. “Why, what’s special about July
10?” Ardys asked. The two women settled into chairs to watch the
show. Ardys had already pushed her chair closer to the feeders
because the stars were beginning to outnumber the fabric of her eyes.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
been keeping track,” Lila said. “And for the last 10 years, the
Rufous show up on July 10.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Come
on, seriously?” Ardys cut her eyes at the woman, who looked
serenely at the feeders.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“They
haven’t disapp … well, looky there,” she said, pointing.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
heard him first. She’d gotten used to a certain kind of hum coming
from the everyday hummers, but this sound was lower and slower. When
she finally saw the bird, aside from its obvious color difference, it
moved oddly, with a hunched back. It looked like a mechanical shark
moving through thick water. All he had to do was get within a dozen
feet of the feeders and the other birds scattered, even the male
Broad-tails. Then it would smoothly fly back to its perch on a tree
branch.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Wow,”
Ardys said, “they’re amazing. He seemed to glide rather than
fly.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Smooth
as buttah, as they say,” Lila said. “That’s why I call him
Frank.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Once
again, Ardys was clueless.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Frank?
This particular Rufous? You can tell them apart that well? And why
Frank?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lila
chuckled. “Oh, no, not this particular bird, just every male
Rufous. They’re smooth like Frank Sinatra.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
laughed. It felt good to laugh and she’d been doing quite a bit of
it lately.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
have a confession to make,” she said. “I call the male
Broad-tails ‘Bruno’ because it’s a tough name for a little
tough guy.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
old woman howled, scattering the hummingbirds.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
two women spent the next couple of hours talking about and watching
hummingbirds. They compared observations about “their” tiny
flocks. They cheered whenever the Broad-tails were able to thwart the
Rufous by hiding behind a post, then darting to the feeder when his
back was turned. The morning went quickly.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,”
Lila said, slapping her hands on the arms of the chair, “I guess
this is good-bye then.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ardys
was momentarily flustered. Did the old woman know about her plans?
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh!”
she said, thinking she understood. “Well, you’re welcome to come
back any time. I’d love to see your feeders sometime, too,” she
hinted, much to her own surprise.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,”
Lila said, working her way to a stand, “I mean a real good-bye. I’m
leaving the mountain.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What?”
Ardys cried. “Why? I thought you loved it here.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“More
than anything,” Lila said, turning away to hide a tear, “but my
son’s got other ideas.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What
do you mean?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Right
now he lives down at the foot of the canyon, but he’s getting
transferred to Wyoming.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Okaaaaaaay
...” Ardys said, not getting it once again.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“He
says he don’t want me living up here all alone, that I’m too old.
Said I need to move, too. You ask me, I think he just don’t want to
be bothered checking up on me every now and then. It’s not like he
does much of that now.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Can’t
you just refuse to go?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Might
could, but he holds the paper on the house. He’s got a Realtor
coming <span style="font-family: Calibri, serif;">’</span>round tomorrow.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“He’d
do that to you?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lila
shrugged. “I am gettin’ up there. Be 72 come October.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Seventy-two?
That’s hardly old at all!” Ardys cried. “You don’t act old …
you’re strong.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
stopped. It really wasn’t any of her business. It was someone
else’s drama, she had enough of her own. She stood up, intending to
at least give the woman a hug, maybe walk her to the end of the drive
… then, wham! It was like someone had hit her upside the head with
a frying pan. Ardys dropped back down into the chair and put her head
between her knees.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Ardys?
Ardys? What do you need me to do?” Lila was on her knees in front
of her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Incapable
of speaking while the stars burned, thundered and flashed, Ardys
reached out. Lila caught her hand and held on tight, which is exactly
what Ardys needed her to do. Later, when she could, Ardys would ask her if
she could drive and whether or not she knew how to use a computer.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06079213798998281561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-91975406581224249432015-07-10T09:46:00.000-05:002015-07-10T09:46:30.621-05:00Vikings Aren't Dumb: A Tale of the Afterlife<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16f2I280ldCSuA7Hh-4JKoDDxo-yuYUjDkNW1ZqGvVBoTOIJZKBCd-f4sTnf0B33bWF-sXxhwE3kWyDjImv6gHmTF2PtavPnWztdqxDjhAM9VBTbLAda3VcdoCVi2nZ7WDu-qhvulS_g/s1600/512px-Aegyptisches_Museum_Berlin_InvNr2055_20080313_Bronze-Sitzfigur_einer_Katze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16f2I280ldCSuA7Hh-4JKoDDxo-yuYUjDkNW1ZqGvVBoTOIJZKBCd-f4sTnf0B33bWF-sXxhwE3kWyDjImv6gHmTF2PtavPnWztdqxDjhAM9VBTbLAda3VcdoCVi2nZ7WDu-qhvulS_g/s320/512px-Aegyptisches_Museum_Berlin_InvNr2055_20080313_Bronze-Sitzfigur_einer_Katze.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image by <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Sven-steffen_arndt" style="background: none rgb(249, 249, 249); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13.3000001907349px; line-height: 21.2800006866455px; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;" title="User:Sven-steffen arndt">Sven-Steffen Arndt</a> via <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Aegyptisches_Museum_Berlin_InvNr2055_20080313_Bronze-Sitzfigur_einer_Katze.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i>Author Note: This story is the first chapter of a novel. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
I was surprised to wake up in the bathtub because I only took showers. Events would overshadow this first fact of the day, and its significance would only come back to me later. I found myself fully dressed in my only suit, the one that served for weddings, interviews, and funerals. The wedding ring I had buried at the back of a dresser drawer fit loosely on my left hand and an old watch was strapped around my wrist. At least I was dry. <br />
<br />
I tried remembering my last thoughts before waking, but everything seemed far away. I wasn’t even sure if I had gone to bed the night before. Was I dreaming? I didn’t think so. Hallucinating? Not likely. I lived a pretty clean life: no drugs, no meat, and hardly ever alcohol. What time was it? My watch said 10:10. Where was my phone? <br />
<br />
I got up and stomped my foot farther into my shoe. It wasn’t tied with my slip-proof knot, just a normal shoe knot that I had abandoned at the age of 12. And as I moved around, my underwear was slightly twisted and there were sock wrinkles trapped under my feet. I looked in the mirror, expecting to see a moustache, kitty whiskers, or profanity drawn on with marker. My face was unblemished, apart from the hooked nose that I could blame on no one but my parents. My hair wasn’t even mussed, and the circles under my eyes from too many nights at the office had faded. I had to admit that I looked better than I had in months. I winked at myself in the mirror and opened the bathroom door. <br />
<br />
I stumbled and scraped my knuckles on the doorjamb. The cat at my feet had long grey and black fur, and was the size of a small dog. It rolled to its back and looked up at me. <br />
<br />
“Darius?” I said. This wasn’t right. Darius had died of leukemia, and was buried in the back yard. <br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
“About that,” he said to me, “I have always been Stormchaser-Prime, Handsome-above-others, Spiderbane, but I suppose that was too much for you to handle. I’ve always felt that ‘Darius’ didn’t do me justice.” He licked a paw and ran it over an ear. “There, I feel better now. How are you, Roy?” <br />
<br />
“Confused,” I said. “You’ve been dead ten years.” <br />
<br />
“Understandable,” he said. “Transistions are always difficult at first, but you are doing remarkably well so far. Most monads spend their first moments wailing and carrying on.” <br />
<br />
“Monads?’ <br />
<br />
“From Leibniz, seventeenth-going-on-eighteenth century philosopher, though he didn’t get it quite right on his first attempt.” He stared at me. Several seconds went by before he blew out a breath and rolled to his feet. “Very well, call it a spirit or a soul. Welcome to the afterlife, Roy. You died a week ago.” <br />
<br />
“But I’m an atheist.” <br />
<br />
Darius flicked his tail. “And I’m Buddhist. I guess we we’re both disappointed.” <br />
<br />
I should have been having a tougher time with the situation, but something in me accepted it. I said as much to Darius. <br />
<br />
“Eventually, every monad comes around. Some quicker than others, though a few stubborn ones are still holding out. That cat that you replaced me with for example.” <br />
<br />
“Rocky? You knew about him?” I had taken in the stray a few months after Darius had died. Unfortunately, Rocky had a habit of breaking for the front door whenever I opened it. One time I couldn’t get my foot wedged in his path and he made it out onto the street, right in the path of a passing pickup truck. I buried him next to Darius. <br />
<br />
Darius sighed. “Yes, that one. Otherwise known as Fearsome Emptybelly the Swift. Catholic, did you know? He’s wandering around convinced that this is all purgatory and we need only to repent enough to find a door to Heaven.” <br />
<br />
“How do you know he’s wrong?” <br />
<br />
Darius smiled in some cat-way that didn’t expose his teeth. “Come along, Roy. We need to go see a man about a pyramid.” <br />
<br />
Darius led me through my house, as empty as the day I moved in. If I concentrated, I could sense the presence of furniture, though maybe that was just my imagination or old memories. The windows looked out onto one of those cloudy days of autumn, a time after the trees had lost their leaves and the grass had turned brown. Darius led me to the glass patio door and looked up at me. <br />
<br />
“Do you want out?” I said, out of reflex. <br />
<br />
Darius sniffed. “I can leave anytime I want. The question is, can you?” He sat on his haunches and flicked his tail. “Go ahead and try.” <br />
<br />
I placed my hand on the door latch. It wiggled, but wouldn’t turn. <br />
<br />
“You have to want to leave,” Darius said. <br />
<br />
“It’s jammed or something,” I said. I locked and unlocked the door, thinking it might be the latch, but the handle still wouldn’t turn. <br />
<br />
“Oh well,” Darius said, and walked through the closed door. His body passed through without breaking stride or dislodging a single hair of his coat. He sat on the other side and licked at the fur on his chest. <br />
<br />
I rattled the door, leaning with all my weight. <br />
<br />
“There’s not really a door there, you know,” Darius said in a voice unmuffled by the glass between us. “Once you accept that, you can manipulate it all you want.” He seemed to be laughing at me. <br />
<br />
Okay, I thought, there’s no door. Maybe that’s why the latch wouldn’t work. If that cat can walk though, so can I. I took a step back, then closed my eyes and rushed forward. My head connected with the glass with a sound like a muffled gong. Light and pain blossomed in my head, followed by another crack to the back of my skull as I hit the floor. I got up, and probed at the painful areas with my fingers, half expecting them to come away bloody from a split cranium. Darius was laughing openly now, rolling on his back from side to side. <br />
<br />
“I give it a 9.5,” he said. <br />
<br />
I cared for that cat for ten years and cried for him like I never did my mother. “You miserable varmint!” I spat. I stood and aimed a kick at the door. My foot sailed through the glass and pulled me with it, past the jamb and onto the patio. Darius scampered out of the way and into the back yard. I fell on my deceased <i>tuchus</i>, and let out a pitiful moan. <br />
<br />
“You see?” Darius said. “You can do it, just don’t think so much. Come on, let’s go.” <br />
<br />
* <br />
<br />
At the edge of the yard, the world seemed to end in a fog but for a shadowy portal. Darius walked though it without looking back, and like an idiot, I followed him. <br />
<br />
There’s probably a word that exactly captures that feeling you get when you’re tipping back in a chair and almost go over backwards, but then catch yourself at the last minute. Whatever that word is, that is what it felt like as I went through the portal. On the other side, my home had disappeared and Darius was waiting for me on a sidewalk in front of a two-pump gas station. In the dusty window, a WWII-era bomber on a tin sign advertised the availability of Victory! motor oil. <br />
<br />
Darius trotted past the pumps, which if the dials were to be believed would dispense gasoline at five cents a gallon. I pulled my eyes away in time to see Darius walk through the door as he had back at the house, heedless of the CLOSED sign hung on its middle. I could see an indistinct figure on the other side of the dusty glass, standing behind a counter. Perhaps out of habit, and perhaps to save myself embarrassment, I pulled on the door’s handle rather than trying to ghost my way through it. <br />
<br />
A bell rang above my head as I entered, and dust fell in my hair. Darius and the figure behind the counter looked at each other for a second, and Darius let out a sigh. <br />
<br />
“Do not over-worry, Stormchaser-Prime,” the figure said to Darius, “I required decades before mastering the nuances of afterdeath.” It turned to me a raised a hand. “Salutations, Roy, Caregiver-of-Stormchaser-Prime, Handsome-above-others, Spiderbane. I am called Scarab, and I welcome you to my humble dwelling.” <br />
<br />
Scarab stood about as high as my shoulder, and I was never a tall man. He seemed thin, unnaturally thin, if that word applied in this place. Bald-headed, and sporting a narrow pointed beard, Scarab dressed in a threadbare tunic that hung over a chest that seemed to cave inwards. His dark skin had an ashen cast, but his eyes were bright and regarded me as a pawnbroker might a watch. <br />
<br />
“So, Stormchaser-Prime, might I inspect what you have brought me? Is he coming or going?” Scarab asked my cat. Darius flopped on the floor and thumped his tail. <br />
<br />
“Just an assessment for now, Scarab,” Darius said. Scarab nodded and came from behind the counter holding several tuning forks between his knuckles. <br />
<br />
I took a step back. “Darius?” I asked. <br />
<br />
“Don’t be a baby, Roy,” the cat said. “Scarab here isn’t going to hurt you. He’s just going to see how much you’re worth in the afterlife.” <br />
<br />
“How much I’m worth?” <br />
<br />
Scarab nodded and held up a tuning fork. “May I?” I shrugged and reluctantly nodded. He knelt and began holding the tuning forks to my right knee in succession. “We all of us come to this place with the things our bodies were interned with, from the poor of the Potter’s Fields to the wealthy Vikings with their glorious boats, or the Emperors of China with sprawling palaces on the hill.” He moved on to my left knee. <br />
<br />
“So what’s that got to do with what you’re doing?” <br />
<br />
“In this place, like in the living world, there are things monads want that they do not possess. One can trade the items they happen to have, or use an alternate form of currency.” He brought his tools to bear on my right wrist, each tuning fork making contact for the briefest of moments before another took its place. <br />
<br />
“And that currency is?” I asked. <br />
<br />
“Time,” Scarab said, and moved to my other wrist. I looked at Darius. <br />
<br />
“He’s kidding,” I said. <br />
<br />
“Not at all,” Darius said. “This place isn’t the end-all of existence, all monads have a finite time before they are compelled to move on.” <br />
<br />
“To what?” <br />
<br />
“Heaven, hell, the next incarnation, who knows? The upshot is that some monads want to take a shortcut, while others choose to delay. We buy and sell that time. Scarab is my broker.” Scarab smiled as he put a tuning fork on my forehead. <br />
<br />
“I’m being appraised?” <br />
<br />
Darius sighed. “Think of it as an inventory of your assets. Don’t worry, as your agent, I’ll get you the best value for your trades.” He licked his stomach fur then added, “Minus my commission, of course.” <br />
<br />
I didn’t know which was more confusing: the concept of an after-afterlife or that I was being represented by my former pet. I was about to object to Darius’ self-appointment when Scarab put a tuning fork over my heart. A sound like a gong erupted, and Scarab stumbled. <br />
<br />
“Imhotep’s nipples!” Scarab squinted at the fork. “Revenge!” <br />
<br />
“What does that mean?” I asked. <br />
<br />
“You mean you didn’t know?” Scarab smiled and set his tools on the counter. “You were murdered.” <br />
<br />
For the second time that day, I just stood, numb. Scarab put a hand on my shoulder. <br />
<br />
“You are a restless soul, fellow monad. You have the potential to manifest in the living world to extract your revenge. Very valuable. I’ll give you five hundred years for it.” <br />
<br />
Darius leapt to the counter. “A thousand years, six months, and a week,” he said. <br />
<br />
Scarab threw up his hands and looked to the ceiling. “Is he going to hire a professional renevant? I doubt he was that important. I could go as high as six hundred and five days.” <br />
<br />
Darius hissed. “Says the man who spent two thousand years sending his mummy on an overnight trip through the British Field Museum. Eight hundred and three quarters.” <br />
<br />
Scarab pointed a finger in Darius’ face. “I lost my fortune when they took me out of my tomb! Ten million years’ worth if it was a day! That’s why I can’t do any better than seven fifty and a weekend, I’m not a charity.” <br />
<br />
“It wasn’t your tomb! It belonged to your pharaoh!” <br />
<br />
“I designed it, and the ungrateful jackal had me killed to keep its secrets. I earned that treasure the hard way!” <br />
<br />
I walked out of the shop and sat on the curb. It took Darius five minutes to notice. He rubbed his head against my knee. <br />
<br />
“What’s wrong, Roy? I talked him up to 780 years, five months, and six days. That’s a good deal.” <br />
<br />
I looked down at him. “I woke up in a bathtub this morning. Someone killed me, and I want to know why.” <br />
<br />
“Are you sure? You’re already dead. Forgive, forget, and make a helluva profit. Living well is the best revenge, they say.” <br />
<br />
I shook my head. “Living well? Are you serious?” <br />
<br />
Darius sneezed. “I never could figure you out Roy. Maybe that was part of your charm.” <br />
<br />
I scratched him behind his ear. “I want to know why. Will you help me?” <br />
<br />
Darius walked away and stopped when he was out of reach. “Fine. Though if you ask me, you’re making a mistake.”<br />
<div>
<br />
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smiled. “I made a lot of mistakes throughout life, why
stop now?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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Wadehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08229835689380630612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-23212223729440960682015-06-12T15:14:00.002-05:002015-07-09T15:09:11.393-05:00A Boy in Love<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody></tbody></table>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image courtesy WikiCommons</td></tr>
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By Bettyann Moore<br />
<br />
On the first day of kindergarten, Porpoise McAllister fell in love. That’s to be expected when a boy leaves his mother’s side for the first time, but it wasn’t his teacher, Ms. Pride, he fell for, though plenty of the other boys, and many of the girls, did. And it wasn’t little Jeannie Hesacker, the doe-eyed brunette whose pink fake fur coat hung on the peg next to his. It wasn’t even a boy-crush on Jason Moyer who towered at least a head above the other 5-year-olds and who had “Most Likely to Break Many Hearts” written all over his face.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>No, the object – and it was an object – of Porpoise’s ardor was a red miniature tractor, so tiny, so detailed, that he almost peed his pants when he saw it. As it was, the poor boy had to choose between running to the bathroom that had the picture of the little boy on the door, or holding it in so he could claim the toy before anyone else did. It was no contest. Fortunately, Ms. Pride was a perceptive teacher. She was also raised with five brothers; she knew how boys were.<br />
<br />
“Gerald,” she said gently, when she saw Porpoise with his knees locked together, bouncing slightly as he pushed the tractor around the play table, “how about I hold onto the tractor for you while you go to the little boys’ room?” She smiled down at him, holding out her hand for the toy. Reluctantly, but trustingly, Porpoise placed the tractor in his teacher’s hand, then bolted as fast as circumstances would allow to the toilets. <br />
<br />
As he zipped up, Porpoise had to make his next difficult decision: to wash or not to wash. The entire family, from Grandpa and Grandma to his parents and even his uncle, had trained him to always wash his hands – with soap! – after using the bathroom. It had become second nature. But how long would Ms. Pride hang onto the tractor for him? How long before some other kid asked her for it and she gave it to him? The thoughts raced through his head.. He turned from the toilet and went right to the door, ignoring the admonishments in his head.<br />
<br />
Ms. Pride’s perception proved right again as the boy held out his hand for the vehicle. <br />
<br />
“Why don’t we use the little room sink to wash those hands?” she said, holding the tractor behind her back. She pointed to a small sink in the corner of the room.<br />
<br />
Porpoise knew it was useless to argue. Besides, now he could keep an eye on the teacher and the tractor while he scrubbed his hands. <br />
<br />
“Just a few more minutes of play time,” Ms. Pride said as she put the toy back into the boy’s (nearly) dried hands. “I’m glad you like the tractor,” she added, “it used to be my grandpa’s.”<br />
<br />
“Really?” Porpoise’s eyes went wide as he hugged the toy to his chest. “How come you have it?”<br />
<br />
“He gave it to me,” Ms. Pride told him, “after he got very, very sick. He gave me that toy horse that Jeannie is playing with, that black car that Jason has, and a few others. I brought them here so my students could play with them.” <br />
<br />
“Wow, nice grandpa,” Porpoise said. “My grandpa has a tractor, too, and it looks just like this, only it’s big and he drives it.” <br />
<br />
“Is that why you like it so much, it looks like your grandpa’s?” Ms. Pride asked him.<br />
<br />
Porpoise shrugged as he went back to pushing the tractor around. “I just like it,” he said. <br />
<br />
<br />
While Ms. Pride circulated through the play area, Porpoise built a barn and roads out of blocks for the tractor. He pretended he had to get the corn planted before it rained. He eyed the horse that Jeannie was using, wishing he could put it in the barn. <br />
<br />
A boy came over and stood next to Porpoise as he maneuvered the tractor across his pretend fields. <br />
<br />
“Nice tractor,” the boy said. “I’ll let you play with this dog if you let me play with that,” he added. He held out a black and white stuffed dog. <br />
<br />
“No thanks,” Porpoise said politely. He angled his body away from the boy, willing him to go away.<br />
<br />
“Well, pretend this is a giant monster who’s coming after the farmer and it crushes him,” the boy said. He held up the dog over the barn and brought it crashing down on top of it, sending blocks flying.<br />
<br />
“No!” Porpoise cried. “Stop that!” <br />
<br />
“Michael Streiter,” Ms. Pride said, striding toward them, “are you playing nice?”<br />
<br />
“He broke my barn,” Porpoise said, gathering up the blocks. <br />
<br />
“Tattletale,” Michael said.<br />
<br />
“Okay, that’s enough,” Ms. Pride said, gently prying the dog from Michael’s hands. “Class,” she said in a loud voice, “time to clean up and get back to our tables. Put the toys back where you found them. I’ll come around to help.”<br />
<br />
Porpoise moaned. He stacked the blocks neatly into their box with one hand, while still clutching the tractor in the other. He put the box away and went back to his seat at the table he shared with three others. He put the tractor in his lap. If he put it back on the shelf, someone else might take it. They might even break it!<br />
<br />
<br />
The class worked on tracing letters and numbers with big, fat pencils for a while. Porpoise already knew all his ABCs and numbers, but did it anyway. Sometimes he made a small “b” instead of a small “d”. He forgot all about the tractor in his lap.<br />
<br />
Ms. Pride went around to the tables and stapled each child’s worksheets together. “You can take these home to show your family,” she told them, “but right now it’s time to wash our hands for snack time.”<br />
<br />
Porpoise couldn’t wait for his snack. His mama had packed cheese crackers, raisins and red juice, his favorite. He jumped up with the others, sending the tractor skittering across the floor. <br />
<br />
“Teacher! Teacher!” Michael Streiter cried, chasing the tractor down, “this boy took the tractor!” He held it aloft for the Ms. Pride to see and pointed at Porpoise.<br />
<br />
“I was just holding it,” Porpoise said, tears springing to his eyes. Tattletale, he thought. He sat heavily back into his seat and put his head down on the table, covering it with his arms.<br />
<br />
Although Ms. Pride didn’t say anything – she simply put the tractor back on its shelf – Porpoise just knew that he’d never be allowed to play with the tractor again. He sobbed quietly until the teacher patted him on the back and told him to wash up then get his snack from his cubbyhole. He did, but only because he was thirsty for red juice.<br />
<br />
<br />
The next day, Porpoise pretended not to notice the tractor in its spot on the shelf, but in the hours before play time, his gaze wandered there as if drawn by magnets. He trembled slightly as the class was released to the play area. He wanted to run to the shelf, but he walked, fast, his eyes on the toy the entire time. Then he blinked and stopped short, startled to see another hand reach for the tractor before he could get there. It was that Michael! The boy flashed Porpoise a wicked grin before he retreated to a corner of the area to play with some other boys. <br />
<br />
He didn’t want to be a crybaby, but Porpoise’s eyes filled with tears anyway. He saw Ms. Pride watching him, though, so he grabbed a puzzle from a shelf and took it back to his seat. By the end of play time he’d done six puzzles.<br />
<br />
Every day it was the same; Michael always got to the tractor first. And he didn’t take care of it! He and the other boys crashed it and other vehicles together and raced them right into walls! He wasn’t going to be a tattletale, but his eyes made silent pleas to Ms. Pride, who didn’t seem to understand.<br />
<br />
Finally, one day Michael wasn’t at school. Porpoise fairly flew to the shelf and snatched up the tractor, cradling it in his hands. His heart sank when he saw that some of its paint had been chipped and one of the wheels didn’t turn any more. No matter, he still loved the little toy and took it over to the play table. Just then a loud buzz sounded. Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! <br />
<br />
“Attention, class!” Ms. Pride shouted over the racket. “This is a fire drill. It’s not a real fire!” she assured the children who looked panicked. “Put down your toys and walk quickly to the door and form a line. No running or pushing!” <br />
<br />
Porpoise looked down at the tractor and sighed. The buzzing was hurting his ears and some of the kids were screaming and running around with their hands over their ears. He left the tractor behind and got in line next to Jeannie Hesacker, who was shaking all over and crying.<br />
<br />
“It’s okay,” Porpoise told her, then reached for Jeannie’s hand. She crushed his in hers and held on, even after they got outside.<br />
<br />
Naturally, there wasn’t any time left to play once they got back inside. Ms. Pride tidied the play area while the students worked on letters and numbers again. Porpoise sighed when she put the tractor back on the shelf. Maybe that Michael boy won’t come back tomorrow, he thought. <br />
<br />
But he did, and Porpoise, who’d already gone through all of the puzzles, reached for the basket of finger puppets.<br />
<br />
“Can I play, too?” Jeannie said, coming over to where he’d dumped the puppets on the floor. <br />
<br />
“I guess,” Porpoise said. He wondered why she wasn’t playing with that stupid horse she always played with.<br />
<br />
It was hard to tell what some of the puppets were supposed to be – one looked like a cross between a chicken and a crocodile – and Jeannie liked to use a high-pitched voice for the voices, but after a while Porpoise forgot all about the tractor.<br />
<br />
<br />
He forgot until the next day, that is, when he came into the room and didn’t see it on the shelf. He looked everywhere, but it was gone! Did that Michael take it? Should he tell Ms. Pride? Was that being a tattletale? Even during morning science where they got to see real tadpoles and frogs, Porpoise fretted. What should he do? When play time came around, Porpoise stayed at his table, sitting on his hands.<br />
<br />
“Teacher! Teacher!” Michael brayed from the play area. “The tractor is missing! Someone took it! I bet it was that boy!” <br />
<br />
Shocked, Porpoise swiveled in his chair. “I didn’t take it!” he declared. “You ...” <br />
<br />
“I took it,” Ms. Pride said, coming between them. “I took the horse and the black car and the others, too.”<br />
<br />
Michael and Porpoise had the same exaggerated flabbergasted looks on their faces, jaws dropped and eyes wide open. It was all Ms. Pride could do not to laugh.<br />
<br />
“Sorry,” she said. “I know you liked the toys, but I found out that they’re made out of something called lead and it’s very harmful, so I took them back home, put them in a box and high up on a shelf.”<br />
<br />
“Darn!” Michael and Porpoise cried at the same time. <br />
<br />
Ms. Pride went to her desk and took a box out of the drawer.<br />
<br />
“I brought some different toys,” she said, opening the box. The two boys, Jeannie, and several others gathered around to peer inside. There was another horse, except this one was black, not white; a blue car, a yellow boat and, yes, another tractor, two in fact.<br />
<br />
Michael snatched up one of the tractors, but Porpoise held back. And Jeannie didn’t reach for the horse. The tractor was nice and all, Porpoise thought, but it just wasn’t the same. <br />
<br />
“Want to play puppets?” Jeannie asked him. <br />
<br />
Porpoise shrugged. “I guess,” he said, “but I get to be the crocodile bird.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06079213798998281561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-46036462857760567502015-05-08T13:10:00.000-05:002015-05-08T13:10:29.903-05:00Mainstream Geek<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKDCKQN9i9Qkav7C1o2wxXcZb64rfzPdhw_3ctN4CHonqDSghRtnY0W34ZZOXJgPfS3v6ljBlY_jV7-gipfMkcqtQvxAbysaFuBOzvxwJgUySpPoY7d2aMZP-lhvagSjyP74fQZnyV5v0/s1600/Disney_Weekend-Star_Wars-YMCA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKDCKQN9i9Qkav7C1o2wxXcZb64rfzPdhw_3ctN4CHonqDSghRtnY0W34ZZOXJgPfS3v6ljBlY_jV7-gipfMkcqtQvxAbysaFuBOzvxwJgUySpPoY7d2aMZP-lhvagSjyP74fQZnyV5v0/s320/Disney_Weekend-Star_Wars-YMCA.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image by<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Disney_Weekend-Star_Wars-YMCA.jpg" target="_blank"> Ron Riccio</a> via Wikimedia Commons</td></tr>
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<br /><br />A red-faced girl of no more than four stared at Melvin. In her hand, chocolate ice cream flowed from her cone over her fingers, dripping onto her dad’s Jedi robes. Dad, oblivious to his mounting dry-cleaning bill, held his daughter in one arm and held out his phone with the other, recording the spectacle of Darth Vader and his stormtroopers gyrating to Michael Jackson’s <i>Beat It</i>. Melvin stumbled, and stutter-stepped back into position, knowing that the mistake would not go unnoticed. The girl fixed her gaze on him and pointed. A bead of sweat rolled into his eyes as he spun around, and Mevlin wished for the thousandth time the park would have provided ventilated suits to offset the hot Florida sun. He finished his dance with a heel-stomp a half beat behind the others; the music ended and applause began. Dad put the little girl down and fiddled with his phone. She waved at him, then extended her arm palm out and spread her fingers so that they formed a V between the middle and ring fingers: the Vulcan salute. <br /><br />Melvin wished, also for the thousandth time, that the park would have provided working blasters. Tourist scum. <br /><a name='more'></a><br />*<br /><br />Kel made a log cabin on his burger patty out of French fries. Into this structure went the extra ketchup, mustard, and pickles before he replaced the bun. He gave his creation a tentative pat, and squinted at the oozing result. Melvin, reached to the napkin dispenser and started shucking brown waffle-patterned squares across the booth as fast as his fingers would allow.<br /><br />Kel looked up and pulled a face. “What?”<br /><br />“I’m not getting my armor dirty over your dumb idea,” Melvin said. He pushed his stormtrooper helmet further away from Kel, and tossed a last napkin his way.<br /><br />“The burger extender is a beautiful idea. When I’ve made a million dollars on it, don’t come crawling to me to pay off your student loans.”<br /><br />“You’re going to get ketchup down your front, and some kid will scream ‘momma, momma! That dancing stormtrooper has his throat all cut out.’ Then you’ll get fired, and somehow, I’ll get fired too because we’re roommates.”<br /><br />Kel shrugged, and gently picked up his burger. “The costume is plastic and rubber. It’ll wash.”<br /><br />“It’ll attract flies and wasps.”<br /><br />Kel sniffed. “Stormtrooper armor might not protect against blasters, but I’ll back it against a wasp any day of the week.” He rotated the burger in his hands, seemingly looking for a place to take a bite.<br /><br />Melvin scooted some inches to his left, out of the line of fire. “But what if Sabrina notices?” <br /><br />Kel put down the burger.<br /><br />“I see I finally got your attention,” Melvin said.<br /><br />Kel opened his burger and reached for a tiny paper cup next to his helmet. “Nah, I just forgot to add the mayo.” He squeezed the mayonnaise into the French fry well and stirred with his finger until it turned a pale orange before replacing the bun. “Sabrina isn’t going to give me the Darth job anyway.”<br /><br />Sabrina, head choreographer and technically their boss, offered the coveted Darth Vader slot as a carrot and withheld it as her stick. Other cast members saw the position as a springboard to higher-profile gigs as cartoon princes and princesses, or even playing the mouse himself. For Kel and Melvin, Darth Vader was the pinnacle of their career aspirations, until such time as the theme park operators reversed their stance on Boba Fett as being too edgy for the guests. Though after five years stuck as Stormtroopers KL-696 and MV-119, Melvin doubted either one of them would ever get the job. Kel lifted his burger once again.<br /><br />“I think we messed up,” Melvin said.<br /><br />“You mean on <i>Footloose</i>? Or <i>Turn Down for What</i>? I thought we hit our marks in time.”<br /><br />“No, I mean all this,” Melvin said waving his hand around the room. “We had dozens of Sci-Fi shows to adopt and we chose Star Wars.”<br /><br />“Who else could compete?’<br /><br />Melvin thought back to lazy summer afternoons on his grandmother’s couch. What was it that came on after Scooby Doo? Guy frozen in time, ran around with a short robot and guy who was half-bird. He snapped his fingers.“<i>Buck Rogers</i>.”<br /><br />Kel stopped shy of taking his first bite, and sat back contemplating. “Colonel Deering was hot, but that show was terrible. No merchandise, no Hollywood reboot, no one even cosplays it at the cons. Who beats Star Wars for costumes? Nobody.”<br /><br />Melvin flicked a wadded-up straw wrapper at Kel. “But it’s the fast-food of Sci-Fi now. Everyone’s a fan, not like when we were growing up. Now even news anchors and pro-wrestlers geek out on TV.”<br /><br />“You’re an elitist, Melvin. I bet if you won the lottery today, you’d run off and become president of some gated community.”<br /><br />That, coming from a kid whose daddy was the president of a gated community. Back when they were kids, Melvin would have to wait on his bike at a striped wooden barrier while a rent-a-guard on a white phone would call Kel’s house each time before letting him through. When it was Kel’s turn to visit, the nanny would drop him off. <br /><br />“Would it be so bad?” Melvin asked. “Look at what they’ve done to us. We’re shuffle and twirl behind the Dark Lord of the Sith while he moonwalks to Michael Jackson. And the people eat it up! They don’t treat it with any respect. George Lucas doesn’t even care anymore, so long as he gets his cut.”<br /><br />Kel shrugged. “Pays the bills.”<br /><br />“And we’re the Empire, we’re not even the good guys!”<br /><br />“Dancing rebels aren’t as entertaining, unless you’re a Wookie. Would you really want to do the routine wearing fake fur?” He shook his head. “You wouldn’t be happy in any other sandbox.”<br /><br />“Well not now, but if I could go back in time, I’d tell my seven year-old self to pick something else.”<br /><br />“And you’d still be pissy. I’ll prove it. Go name your alternate-geek demigod.”<br /><br />Something less cheesy, Melvin thought, something harder to laugh at. “<i>Battlestar Galactica</i>. We could have been in on the ground floor of the reboot.”<br /><br />“Robot dog in the ‘70s gives way to a decent two seasons before it devolves into a parable about Iraq and god. The cognitive dissonance you’d have over justifying that storyline would lead you to drink or smoke weed. Possbily both.”<br /><br />He had a point, that last season was a train wreck. Maybe something British? “<i>Doctor Who</i>.”<br /><br />Kel sniffed. “Have you even seen what they’ve done to that poor man? I’m only still watching because I’ve seen every episode and can’t break the streak now. If I came at it with fresh eyes, I’d call it overrated.”<br /><br />Something obscure, Melvin thought. “How about <i>Blake’s 7</i>?”<br /><br />“Possible, but then you’d be stuck watching reruns on VHS. Who even has one of those anymore? It’s right down there with <i>The Shadow</i> radio dramas.”<br /><br />“<i>Firefly</i>,” Melvin said smugly. Everyone loved <i>Firefly</i>.<br /><br />“You’d cosplay, and everyone would be asking you why you’re dressed up as a cowboy.”<br /><br />Melvin wasn’t sure cosplaying was the end-all of geekdom, but that was an argument for another lunch hour. He recalled an old toy he loved as a kid from the quintessential spaceship-and-a-moonbase TV show.“<i>Space 1999</i>.”<br /><br />“Now you’re just being silly. You might as well be a superfan of<i> Battle from Beyond the Stars</i>.”<br /><br />“I still think that’s a sleeper cult classic.” Melvin said. Who got it right? Who actually thought about physics and worried about continuity? There was that show in the late ‘90s.“Okay, <i>Bablyon 5</i>.”<br /><br />“An excellent choice! But it needs to age more before it’s retro. You’d be like the guy still using old catch phrases.” Kel pulled a face and arched his eyebrows. “<i>Whazzzzzzup</i>?”<br /><br />Melvin checked the room to see if anyone was staring at them. He was embarassed, and he hadn’t even used the old catchphrase. “Fine. <i>Star Trek</i>. We shouldda been trekkies.”<br /><br />Kel pounded his fist on the table, barely missing his burger.“Blasphmer! You don’t really mean that.”<br /><br />“No. Not really. Though Jean-Luc Picard never had to dance to Aerosmith.”<br /><br />“No, he just had to talk about his feelings all the time.”<br /><br />Yeesh, he was right. By the time that series ended, the crew was singing<i> kumbaya</i> and teaching the Klingons to eat with knives and forks. While he agreed with the ethos of Star Trek, deep down he wanted his sci-fi to get a little dirty. “Fine. Uncle. You win,” he said.<br /><br />Kel smiled and eyed his burger. “You know, Melvin, no one has it better than us. The other guys, they have to fit this lifestyle in around the edges. We get to put it front and center. And if we have to do some silly things? It’s no worse than having to go to meetings all day to hear about what other people are doing. And you have to wear a tie.” He put on a sneer. “Spreadsheets and hokey sales presentations are no match for a good blaster at your side.”<br /><br />Melvin snorted. “You’re not really going to eat that are you?”<br /><br />“What? This has like ten thousand calories. There’s no way I’d fit in the Vader suit if I ate this.” He threw a napkin over his plate and stood. “Let’s go, MV-119.”<br /><br />Melvin sighed, and grabbed his helmet. “Right behind you, KL-696.”<br /><br />*<br /><br />The little girl was there for the two o’clock show, and stared right at Melvin. The timing was tricky, and he made sure his body shielded the act from Sabrina, watching in the wings. He pointed at the girl, then extended his palm and flashed her the Vulcan salute. Her jaw dropped, and it took all of Melvin’s control to stifle a laugh, stay on cue, and hit his next mark.<br /><br />Nope. Nobody had it better than him and Kel.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Wadehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08229835689380630612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-61019135078824829062015-03-06T11:29:00.002-06:002015-07-09T15:09:15.968-05:00Spring BreakThis month, Bettyann and I are taking a break from writing new material. While we're on vacation, we will be posting favorites from the past that until now were only available through our books on Amazon. This week, a story from Colleen Sutherland that first appeared in the journal <i>Rosebud.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
As always, we like to hear from our readers, so please let us know what stories you'd like to see more of, either here on the blog or at our <a href="https://www.facebook.com/BlackCoffeeFiction?ref=bookmarks" target="_blank">Facebook page</a>.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>-</i>Wade<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>continue on to: <a href="http://blackcoffeefiction.blogspot.com/2011/10/a-candle-in-window.html" target="_blank">A Candle in the Window</a></i>Wadehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08229835689380630612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-35730841648189749852015-02-27T15:51:00.000-06:002015-05-08T13:10:41.455-05:00The Birds Are Disappearing - Conclusion<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
By
Bettyann Moore</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPPxMLbuNxe-Ir0sY6hl5t_KfRBwt-uREdHfHWyryYE98j8I7zQ8HG5-Zuecsk1lTE-C7G55s_KVlil4A-uhwa4F8kprdinfFK4QWWBaGSEYGC9rX67AE4l1ZtnvUZXiXg0Tmz9ESLQt0/s1600/Geese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPPxMLbuNxe-Ir0sY6hl5t_KfRBwt-uREdHfHWyryYE98j8I7zQ8HG5-Zuecsk1lTE-C7G55s_KVlil4A-uhwa4F8kprdinfFK4QWWBaGSEYGC9rX67AE4l1ZtnvUZXiXg0Tmz9ESLQt0/s1600/Geese.jpg" height="228" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In
retrospect, I shouldn’t have taken that last shot at Larry. Things
would have turned out very differently, at least for some.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mrs.
Oddstetter was pleased to see me, though she still wanted an audience
with her great-nephew. She forgot all that, though, once I told her
about the holograms and the birds’ refusal to migrate.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
knew it!” she said. “I just knew there was something rotten going
on, thanks to my good-for-nothing great-nephew and those of his ilk.”
She gave me a nasty look, then picked up an old-fashioned rotary
phone. I watched, fascinated, as she dialed. It seemed to take
forever just to make one call, especially when she messed up and had
to start all over again. She waved me away when I held out my cell
phone to her. I wandered around the grand living room, admiring the
antiques and paintings; the lady was loaded.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“There,”
she said, hanging up and turning back to me. “In a day or two I’ll
be among the birds once more.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You’re
going to South America?” I asked. “How’d you manage that?”
It’d been nearly 10 years since any American had been allowed to go
south of the border, ever since the bill dubbed Washington’s
Revenge had been ratified. I’ll amend that: any <i>unconnected</i>
American. Mrs. Oddstetter was obviously connected.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
almost wish I was going with you,” I said a bit wistfully.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Poor
Prescott,” Edith said, immediately understanding my dilemma. “All
this amazing information and there’s really no way to use it, is
there?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
shook my head. “It’s just too big, too complex,” I said. “It’s
not like the birds can be legislated to come back. It not like
there’s anything to come back <i>to</i>.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Not
to mention your own culpability in that,” she said, but not
unkindly.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“There
is that,” I admitted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Canaries
in a coal mine is what they are,” Edith said, thinking of the
birds, “and we didn’t pay any attention. My boy, you really must
consider leaving here. I sense impending doom.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Touched
by her concern, and a little amused by her warning, I assured her I
would be fine. There were still bills to be paid and a job to do,
though I was decidedly less enthusiastic about that job. It was late.
The Senator would already be on K Street dining with the Boys’
Club. I decided I could use a good meal and a few shots of bourbon
myself. The Senator could wait until morning.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Once
again, the old coot managed to get to the office before I did. Diego
rolled his eyes when I came in, slightly under the weather from too
many bourbons.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“He’s
in rare form,” Diego said, handing me a cup of coffee. “Here,
you’ll probably need this.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
slugged down a few gulps along with some aspirin at my desk and went
in.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Just
the man I want to see!” the Senator boomed, making me wince. “Ready
to fly?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Fly,
Sir?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Someone
hasn’t been listening to their voice mail again,” he chided,
wagging a finger at me.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
had me there. I hadn’t even turned on my phone that morning. Was I
already checking out?</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Sorry,”
I said weakly. “Where are we off to?” <i>A little change of scene
would be nice,</i> I thought.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“To
the West Coast, my boy,” he said, “Big <i>Oceans</i> meeting
there. I’m gonna try to turn a pig’s ear into a silk purse.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
was referring to the Senate’s <i>Oceans, Atmosphere, Fisheries and
Coast Guard</i> committee, of which he was a member. Since the coasts
started shrinking due to the oceans’ rise and there wasn’t a
thing anyone could do about it, it’s been the committee’s goal to
– shall we say – put a pretty face on it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Sounds
fun,” I mumbled. “Maybe we’ll see the eagles while we’re
there.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
His
face lit up. “That would be grand!” he said. “Maybe I can get a
picture of me with them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Not
unless you’re flapping your wings and flying a thousand feet off
the ground,</i> I thought. I think I was just a more than a little
hungover.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Maybe
so!” I said. We passed through my office and I paused long enough
to grab the carry-on I always have packed and ready to go.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The,
uh, handlers also want me to meet with Rep. _______,” he said
offhandedly.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“They
want you to meet with her?” I asked, surprised. “The woman who’ll
likely be your opponent in a run for President?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Don’t
worry, boy,” he said, “I won’t give the farm away, just scoping
out the lay of the land.” There he went with his farm-boy lingo.
“Speaking of eagles,” he said, changing the subject, “what’d
you learn about the birds?” He stopped mid-stride and changed his
mind. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of time on the plane for that,”
he said. I just shrugged and followed him out.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Only
there wasn’t any time. I was less than delighted to see Leela and a
couple more handlers already making their way up the narrow stairs
into the jet as we came out onto the tarmac. While the Senator
huddled with them in the front of the plane, I hunkered down in the
back and nursed some hair-of-the-dog.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We
toured the new floating production plant whose sole product was kelp,
which the Senator and the committee touted as “the food of the
future.” (I almost suggested they call it Soylent Green, but
checked myself). I didn’t bother going to the meeting with Rep.
________, since the handlers would be in attendance. There were no
opportunities to give the Senator the lowdown on the birds. The next
day, though, while the handlers looked on with nodding approval, the
old man corralled me in the hotel lobby and said that he’d
chartered a boat to “go out and see some American eagles.” Just
he and I would be making the trip.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Bald
eagles,” I corrected, which only made him laugh.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
boat captain, someone who’d made the trek out to Eagle Island
hundreds of times, didn’t help much. As we neared the rocky island,
he pointed upward.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Behold
the American Eagle,” he said, a bit too dramatically for my tastes.
“We’re lucky with the water up like it is,” he went on, “’cause
we’re all that much closer to the nest.” It sounded like he’d
taken a page from the Senator’s play book: Paint a pretty picture
and that’s all that they’ll see.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Even
without binoculars we could see one eagle on the nest and another
circling overhead. As if to give us our money’s worth, it made a
spectacular dive into the sea, coming up with a large, wriggling
fish.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Bravo!”
the Senator yelled.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I,
of course, wondered if this was the real pair or the hologram pair.
It didn’t take long to find out.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
While
the Senator stood on the bow squinting through a pair of binoculars
at the flying bird, I saw the other one lift off from the nest. It
began streaking toward us, growing larger and larger as it got
closer, its talons poised to strike.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Holy
mother of God!” the captain cried, ducking down behind the wheel.
“Senator, look out!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Confused,
the old man lowered the binoculars seconds before the bird reached
him.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They
said it was a massive coronary caused by shock that killed him; he
was dead before he hit the water. I’d seen the fringing a second
before the bird passed right through him, headed for me. I was
already pulling off my shoes to dive overboard by the time the bird
reached me; then it disappeared altogether. While I groped in the
murky water, I knew this had been Larry’s parting shot to me, only
it didn’t turn out quite like he’d planned.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
funeral was well attended, though Mrs. Oddstetter declined to return
home for it, for which I’m now grateful. The handlers were there,
though, and I saw Leela shadowing Rep. _______ the entire time, right
up until the gasp went up and people started screaming and scrambling
for the exits.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“We’re
under attack!” more than one person yelled. Somewhere along the
line the flag-draped coffin got bumped and it crashed to the floor,
the Senator’s corpse spilling out and rolling itself up in the
flag. It came to rest at Leela’s feet.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We
weren’t getting attacked of course, at least not in the way we all
first thought.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
Earth had had enough. Starting from the West coast and moving
amazingly fast eastward, it began to split and heave, fracturing like
a Wyoming windshield. The poisons we had been forcing into it spewed
out like so many volcanoes, the gases quickly becoming a raging,
moving inferno. The military pilots who were scrambled to the skies,
could only watch and report, their spirits plummeting as their own
states, their own homes, succumbed to the fury. They held onto hope
when the rivers of fire seemed to stop at the Western Slope of the
Rockies, then cried when they appeared again on the Front Range,
sweeping eastward.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Why
it stopped at the Mississippi River is anyone’s guess. The
scientists, what few there are, are baffled, and no one listens to
the preachers any more. Those of us who are left, though, know it’s
only a matter of time. If the radiation from the nuclear plants that
remain burning doesn’t get us, the Earth will figure out another
way.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We’re
on our own. Not surprisingly, many nations simply refused to give
aid. The ones who offered have so very little to give. And, of
course, some insist we pull ourselves up with our own bootstraps –
yes, they’re still with us – but they’re quickly drowned out.
The very rich left to their chalets in other countries. This
includes, it goes without saying, most of the senators and
representatives, pockets fat with riches from lobbyists and
corporations. The unrest of a frightened people has died down. For
the duration, I hope, we’re of the people and for the people.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
could have gone as well, I suppose. Instead, Diego and I have moved
into one room of Mrs. Oddstetter’s manse (at her insistence) and
have turned the rest of it into a free boarding house and school.
Diego is a whiz in the kitchen, turning what little we have into
flavor able sustenance. We look forward to the monthly food shipments
from Mrs. O, who is still living amongst her birds.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I’m
the maintenance guy, and the teacher. The school was Diego’s idea.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Mi
amor,” he said, “the people, now more than ever, want to learn.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
was right. The classes are packed with children and adults eager to
unravel the thinking of the past so as not to carry it into the
future, even if our future is short. My most popular class is the one
where I tell the story of the birds. They listen raptly, without
judgment. And not one has ever said: “We should have gone with
them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06079213798998281561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-91046439395583979092015-02-21T13:40:00.000-06:002015-05-08T13:10:41.459-05:00The Birds Are Disappearing - Part II
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
By
Bettyann Moore</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSjgS8D5DidsK9Y2SfEoms1-QBo9HCB7fOAt0Lfr9p-zC7cAZy_vRk7A3s4NRcEw4LoM3YSiGs1sM6l9cOuvg2vfcys0OCHX6LJVcLPN2b9We3twRpV20fQYnt2nCAjXXqZ3-GNnJiwk/s1600/Eagle2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSjgS8D5DidsK9Y2SfEoms1-QBo9HCB7fOAt0Lfr9p-zC7cAZy_vRk7A3s4NRcEw4LoM3YSiGs1sM6l9cOuvg2vfcys0OCHX6LJVcLPN2b9We3twRpV20fQYnt2nCAjXXqZ3-GNnJiwk/s1600/Eagle2.jpg" height="188" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
There’s
little reason to go into how I managed to get access to Larry and to
the place he works, a place that most people don’t even realize
exists. Most couldn’t fathom the work he does there anyway. Suffice
it to say that this town runs on favors and I called a few in.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Larry’s
room was two doors down from mine at the frat house. He was brilliant
and the go-to man for any math or science questions. We weren’t
close, but I happened to be in the wrong place at the right time one
frigid December night and kept him out of big, big trouble. Like most
people with a debt to pay, Larry began avoiding me, moved out of the
frat house and changed schools. I never saw him again. I kept track
of him, though.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
didn’t know I was coming. The person who got me the one-day
security clearance assured me he’d be there.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“He
never leaves,” I was told. “And I don’t mean that rhetorically.
He lives there.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
seemed to be a pretty creepy place to work and live, judging from the
labyrinth of corridors I had to get through. Dim, overhead lights
clicked on as I neared them, then shut off as I left their sphere of
light. Dark ahead, dark behind. Finally, I came to a
formidable-looking door upon which someone had sloppily painted the
symbol for infinity. Had to be Larry; I remember that he had a thing
about the concept.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
swiped the card I was given through the scanner located where a
doorknob should have been. The door swung open slowly. I peered
inside, but all was black, just like the hallway behind me. I stepped
over the threshold, expecting another light to pop on, but none did.
The door was closing behind me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Come
on in, Prescott,” a voice said. Larry. He sounded far off. I
wondered how he knew it was me. I wondered if I was going to fall
down some steps.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Don’t
worry just walk forward,” he said, reading my mind.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A
few steps inside and lights snapped on. Not just any lights, though.
I held up my arm to shield my eyes from their intense glare. I heard
the door shut behind me and I looked back. No doorknob there, either.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
gee, sorry about that,” Larry said, sounding less than sorry. “I
forgot they were initialized. I seldom get visitors.” The light
faded to a warm, amber glow and I could finally see ahead.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
room, what I could see of it, seemed to go on forever. Platter-sized
light fixtures, the kind that are enclosed in metal cages – think
gym class – dangled from thick cords from a ceiling too far away to
see. They illuminated a living room-sized area under which Larry sat,
his right side facing me, at a huge desk arrayed with all manner of
electronics. The keyboard, if you could call it that, looked more
like something you’d see in a sound engineer’s booth. There
wasn’t a screen anywhere in sight.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Prescott,
my boy,” Larry said, “come, sit, sit!” He gestured to the only
other piece of furniture in the space, a tattered gold and brown
armchair upholstered in a repeating hunter/dog/gun scene. My
grandfather used to have one just like it. I shook Larry’s very
soft, very small hand. I’d forgotten how little he was. I noticed
that his desk chair was augmented with two mismatched cushions and
his feet rested on an upside-down apple crate. He didn’t bother to
get up. The armchair was a lot lower than I was expecting and I
landed heavily, sending up a storm of dust particles that glinted in
the air. My blue suit would need cleaning.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We
chatted as old frat mates do, Larry talking much more than I’d ever
heard him. And fast. He talked very fast. I chalked it up to being
alone so much. His hands never stopped moving over the keyboard the
whole time, though, like I said, there wasn’t a computer screen in
sight.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So,”
I finally said, “you knew I was coming?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Not
until you got to the building,” Larry said. “Cameras. Even then I
wasn’t quite sure who you were until I watched your progress down
the halls. You still have that little limp.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Duly
noted, Larry,</i> I thought, <i>you pay attention and you go for the
weaknesses.</i> “Certainly no surprising you then, I guess,” I
said. “It’s been a long time, Larry. What? Since December of
20-whatever it was?” Just saying the month was my way of letting
him know I was there to let him pay off his debt. He got it, I could
tell. He looked relieved, though trepidatious.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
looked at me candidly for the first time. “What can I do you for?”
I cringed. It was an expression used back in my old neighborhood, a
place I’d sooner forget. Was he trying to keep an upper hand?</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The
birds,” was all I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Larry’s
hands paused in mid-air over the keyboard. He sighed once, twice.
Finally, he tapped a few keys here and pushed a slider there.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You’ll
have to come around behind me to see this,” he said.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Confused,
I wrestled my way out of the low chair and went around behind him.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Wow!”
I said, “What the heck?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hologram
screen,” Larry said, the pride obvious in his voice. “Cool, huh?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
screen, which I hadn’t been able to see from the side, was a good
six feet by 12 feet and seemed to hover just beyond the desk. On it
was blank map of North America.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
could use it as a touch screen,” Larry said, “but this is just
easier.” He hit a couple of keys and the map was populated by tiny
black specks.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;">“<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Migrating
bird populations,” Larry said, “dating back to the 1700s –
extrapolated, of course – up to the present. It’s a time-lapse.
We’ll start with 25 years apart then 10, five, etc. Watch.”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">I
watched. The black specks streaked from the south, then streaked
back, then up, then back. As time progressed, the number of black
dots decreased and decreased … until there were but a few along
coasts and large bodies of water. As each decade, each year passed, I
found myself rooting for the black dots. Kept hoping for them to
increase. They didn’t.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Larry
glanced back at me to see if he still had my attention. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;">“<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">I’ll
do an overlay now,” he said, “of certain events and conditions
that occurred over the same time period.”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;">“<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Like
what?” I asked.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;">“<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Increases
in industrial activity, earthquakes, chemical train derailments, that
little incident at Yellowstone with the geyser, filling in swamps
...”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;">“<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Okay,
I got it,” I snapped.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">He
ran the program again. Around 1760, the beginning of the Industrial
Revolution, red squares began popping up here and there. Then more
and bigger ones. It didn’t take a genius to see that there were
fewer and fewer black dots populating the red areas. Most sobering
was the fact that by the end, almost the whole continent was red and
varying shades of pink. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">I
went back to the big chair and flopped down into it, thinking.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Finally,
I said, “I don’t buy it.”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Larry
looked surprised. “What don’t you buy?”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;">“<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">According
to this, there’s hardly a bird left at all,” I said, “but just
walking over here today I heard them singing, saw them flying … I
call BS despite what you just showed me and the Senator’s
great-aunt told me.”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;">“<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Ah,
our dear Ethel Oddstetter,” Larry said, turning back to the
hologram screen and hitting a few keys. I guess I shouldn’t have
been surprised that he knew her. “You might want to come see this,”
he said.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Wearily,
I got up from the chair again. On the screen was the lady in
question, her pith helmet jauntily atop her head. She was walking in
a field of tall grasses, a pair of binoculars dangling from her neck.
I didn’t even bother to ask how the footage came into being.
Suddenly, the old lady is startled as a great flock of birds rises
out of the grass, fluttering wildly. The old lady clasped her hands
together in apparent delight and stands stock-still. Before long the
birds come back, settling in the grass once more. The old woman
begins moving again, but this time the birds don’t fly up. She
advances, then turns in large circles, looking bewildered. Larry
stopped the program.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;">“<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">I
don’t get it,” I said. “Obviously, the birds are there.”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;">“<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Obviously
you say?” Larry cocked his head at me. “Let me show it again,
this time in slo-mo. Watch carefully.”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">I
see the woman walking. I see the birds slowly rise out of the field,
I see their wings fluttering, I see them return, I see … wait,
what’s this? I peered more closely at the screen. As the birds
return, some of them appear to be landing right where Ethel is
standing. They appear, actually, to pass right through her body. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;">“<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">What
the …? Holograms? The birds are holograms?”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Ding,
ding, ding, give the contestant a prize!” Larry crows. “Cool,
huh?” Everything is cool with Larry. “And it’s not all of them,
yet. The scavenger species – the gulls, the ravens, crows, vultures
– they’re still around, along with a few others.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sinking
back into the chair, I pulled out my tablet, the one I’d taken
notes on during my meeting with Oddstetter. Sure enough, there it is,
her account of seeing a flock of birds “just disappear right before
my eyes.” I had chalked it off to senility and ignored it.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“And
that cardinal outside the Senator’s office every single day?” I
asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Larry
frowned. “There are glitches,” he said, “and that’s one of
them. Another one is the fringing.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Fringing?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
it’s like a purplish halo around each hologram. It’s okay as long
as there’s an element of surprise and no one looks too closely. I’m
working on it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
thought back to the cardinal, maybe that’s what had struck me as
odd about it, the fringing.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So,
why the subterfuge?” I asked Larry.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
they tell me national security,” he said, waving his hand
dismissively. “Whatever.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
gazed at the screen almost lovingly and I’m hit by a realization.
He doesn’t care what it’s all for, just so long as he gets to do
the science, the cool stuff. For him, it’s all about the science,
the wonder. Carrying that thought further, I realized that for me,
what I do is all about the power, the politics. I slouched heavily
into the chair, brooding.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;">“<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">So,
are you going to be cool with telling me all this?” I asked, using
his favorite word. “I mean, the Powers That Be aren’t going to
send you to some island prison for snitching?”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #00000a;">“<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Nah.”
He waved his hand again. “In real terms, this bird thing is nothing
compared to other stuff. Besides, it’s pretty much reached critical
mass and people are noticing. Ethel Oddstetter has been very useful
that way.”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Still,
it’s terrible to think that all those birds have died,” I said,
feeling somewhat guilty.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Died?”
Larry said. “They’re not dead.” He started chuckling while he
fiddled with the keyboard again. I didn’t even wait for him to say
it, I hoisted myself out of the chair and came around behind him.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“If
they’re not dead, where are they?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
had Mexico and the North, South, and Central American continents on
the screen. He replayed the first program and I finally saw what he
meant.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“They’re
pissed,” Larry said, “and have decided not to migrate.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Pissed?
Decided?” I said. “They’re birds! You know, with teeny little
bird brains!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Larry
looked at me with I can only describe as pity on his face. “Now,
Prescott,” he said as if talking to a little kid, “we still don’t
know a lot about the whys and hows of migration, but surely if
they’re programmed genetically to migrate in the first place, that
same program can be reversed if necessary, right?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
suppose,” I allowed. “But what about the sheer numbers? All those
billions of birds staying in just two continents all the time, year
after year, competing for food, territory?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That’s
another thing those ‘bird brains’ have done,” Larry said. “The
population numbers have adjusted themselves. A species that had 100s
of thousands might now have just tens of thousands. It’s quite
remarkable, actually, and not unheard of in other animal populations.
Unlike humans,” he added, “we just keep on filling up the place.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
had a point there.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
at least we still have four eagles,” I said dryly.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Er,
well, two anyway ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The
other two are holograms?” The look on his face told me the answer.
“Is this happening anywhere else?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“To
this extent? No, but it’s bound to. There are already portions of
the lower Americas that the birds are avoiding.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He’d
given me a lot to ponder and as far as I was concerned, had paid his
debt. It was time to go see Mrs. Oddstetter, then the Senator. There
had to be some way to leverage this information to help his
presidential bid and prevent him from trying to advance that odious
bill that the handlers suggested. Suggested was probably not the
right word, though. What the handlers wanted, they got.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Thanks,
Larry, for the education,” I said. “It was good to see you. I’ve
forgotten so many people and things from the old days.” He looked
relieved, having gotten the message I’d just given him.<span style="color: #00000a;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">
</span></span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
shook his hand again – he didn’t bother to get up – and headed
to the door. By the time I got to it, it was swinging open for me. On
the threshold I turned back to him.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“By
the way,” I said, shouting across the expanse, “that girl?” I
saw his back go rigid. “Darned if after all these years she didn’t
wake up from the coma. Her family is thrilled, especially since she’s
talking.” Someone had to tell him and it may as well have been me.
I scooted through the door and made my way through the maze.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06079213798998281561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-35850380449052325422015-02-13T16:03:00.001-06:002015-05-08T13:10:41.457-05:00The Birds are Disappearing - Part I<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
By
Bettyann Moore</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixd-KUin0NcnDoxh-NjFLzHhgvEozljq001ZuSbaDlWxnAozJuymBW6QQcxvykwLav7XbIh5YZocTqGlJ-GfzB-TgFUoSetuL_jPe7jbuhTSsBKtSAGTc90Q0_BjgNqp4vHk20G2EkZQY/s1600/FlyingRaven.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixd-KUin0NcnDoxh-NjFLzHhgvEozljq001ZuSbaDlWxnAozJuymBW6QQcxvykwLav7XbIh5YZocTqGlJ-GfzB-TgFUoSetuL_jPe7jbuhTSsBKtSAGTc90Q0_BjgNqp4vHk20G2EkZQY/s1600/FlyingRaven.jpg" height="209" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It’s
up to me, I guess, to tell the real story, to set the record straight
as the Senator used to say, only when he said it, one could be sure
it was all kinds of skewed. I didn’t know that at first, of course.
This wide-eyed poli-sci major fresh out of college and tapped for the
position of administrative assistant to Senator R_______ of the great
State of M_______ would have been happy just shining his shoes.
Looking back, being the Official Shiner of Shoes would have been a
blessing.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But
I’m getting ahead of myself. The story really begins about the time
the Senator’s great-great-great grandfather chased off his first
indigenous family from the land he’d claimed for himself. We’ve
only recently come to know that that was when nii'ehihi' hoohookeeno'
– roughly, “Little Crazy Bird” – disappeared from North
American skies. They were the first and nobody missed them, at least
not among the pale angry hordes that swept across the country. They
were too busy shooting up things.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A
tiny segment of an Arapaho tribe still greets each morning with a
prayer to return nii'ehihi' hoohookeeno' back to them.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fast
forward a couple of hundred years.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
John
Audubon’s <i>Birds of America </i>took the world by storm. Its
delightful paintings of birds, a couple of dozen of which no one had
ever before identified, captured the attention of a small, but
fervent group of people who we now know as “birders.” Or did,
anyway. The fact that Audubon, for the most part, created that famous
tome by killing, stuffing and mounting its subjects only proved
controversial to some. Nonetheless, by the time the Senator and I
were meeting for the first time on the Capitol steps, several hundred
of the species’ Audubon immortalized were gone, missing in action,
presumed extinct.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Again,
no one seemed to notice, or care.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’m
going to be President one day, boy, and you’ll be there to see –
to <i>make</i> – it happen.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Those
were the first words the Senator, gripping my hand and slapping me on
the back, said to me that day. Heady words that created a jumble of
images in my head … me, standing behind him as he held his hand on
the <span style="font-style: normal;">Bible</span> … me at his right
hand as he negotiated a treaty … me sleeping in my own room in the
White House, forever to be known as the Mueller Room. I said I was
young, and with that, a tad stupid. I would, by golly, make my mark
on the world. And that, heaven help me, that was true.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
“Let’s Destroy the National Parks” bill, that was mine. Of
course we didn’t call it that. The Senator introduced it to
Congress as the Land of the Free Act and it passed in both houses by
whopping margins. The unfortunate accident in Northwest Petroleum
Park (formerly known as Yellowstone) and that little incident in
Reddi-State Battery Park (Rocky Mountain National Park) didn’t get
things off to a good start, but I did get a hefty raise from the
Senator when he learned that I’d built a corporate liability clause
into the law.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Also
ours was the Wetlands Rediscovery Act. Filling in all those oozing,
mosquito-filled marshes and swamps seemed like a great idea at the
time and opposition to it amounted to just a handful of what the
Senator and the rest of Congress called dirty hippie terrorists. They
didn’t stand a chance against the builders and developers chomping
at the bit to erect malls and million dollar houses. Of course not.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
By
then at least 200 species of birds had simply vanished, not to
mention a host of other creeping, crawling and swimming creatures. It
was the birds, though, that brought things to a grinding halt. We
have Ethel Oddstetter to thank for that.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
hardly noticed her sitting outside the Senator’s office – <i>my</i>
office – that morning. I did make a note to have a talk with
security about letting in homeless people, but she looked harmless
enough. I was only slightly alarmed when she shuffled in the door
right behind me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Why
is it that the older the woman, the larger the purse? The thing she
had clutched to her chest could have held two small children and
their lunches. Or, you know, an Uzi or something. I got behind the
secretary’s desk without appearing to be running. The secretary was
late again, but I knew there was a panic button beneath the desk.
Just in case.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
was at least 90 degrees outside but Mrs. Oddstetter was wearing a
long wool skirt, held tight with a pink diaper pin at the waist,
striped wool socks inside scuffed shitkickers laced with
multicolored, unmatched shoestrings, a thermal long-sleeved shirt
under not one, but two sweaters, one long and red, the other short
and blue. She had on a filthy pair of gloves whose fingertips had
been cut off. Atop all this she wore a pristine pith helmet. She gave
off a swampy, musty odor. She was, in short, pretty scary.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Uh,
may I help you?” I asked, wishing the damn secretary would get
there. “The city food bank is just a couple of blocks from here
...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
snorted. She out and out snorted at that. Then she threw her head
back and laughed. I was obviously dealing with a crazy person. I
inched my toe toward the button on the floor. At the same time, Mrs.
Oddstetter slapped her hand on the desk, causing me to back up a
pace, toward the inner office. As she leaned over the desk I saw that
she had a visitor’s pass dangling from a lanyard around her neck.
An official <i>family</i> visitor’s pass. The kind that only I, or
the Senator, can issue. I certainly hadn’t issued it. She was no
relative of mine.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
wish, you arrogant-without-resume’ cretin, to have an audience with
the Senator.” She spoke in the carefully modulated, educated tones
of an Ivy Leaguer. She spoke like I do. Her extremely green eyes
glared at me behind bi-focals. It was the look I’ve seen on the
faces of CEOs who wear Armani and $500 loafers.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
regrouped.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
Ms … I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
held out the pass from her neck.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It’s
<i>Mrs</i>. Ethel Oddstetter,” she said, a bit snottily I thought.
“And I already know who you are, you’re that weenie assistant
who’s been riding my great-nephew’s coattails for ten years.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yes,
I mean, no … I mean, yes, I’m Prescott Mueller, the Senator’s
administrative secretary. You’re the Senator’s great-aunt?” I
couldn’t have been more surprised.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“On
his mother’s side,” she said, backing up a bit and settling into
a chair. “I’m here to see Tom-Tom about the birds.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
couldn’t help it, I coughed into my fist to keep from laughing.
Tom-Tom!
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Making
a quick recovery in this business is essential. “The birds?” I
asked. “What about the birds? Which birds?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Just
then Diego, the secretary, breezed in already apologizing for being
late. He stopped short when he got a load of Mrs. Oddstetter.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
um, my,” he stammered. He, too, made a quick recovery and came
round to the other side of the desk, practically knocking me over. He
flipped open a leather-bound book on the desk and scanned it. “Mrs.
Oddstetter I presume?” he said, all formal and polite.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Indeed,”
Oddstetter said, nodding regally.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Welcome,
welcome,” Diego said. He looked down at the book again. “We have
you scheduled for a tour of the capitol, a meeting with the head of
our science committee and lunch with the Senator. I hope that suits
you.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
was getting peeved. Being out of the loop made me very anxious.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That,
young man, suits me not a whit,” Oddstetter said. “I’m here to
see the Senator and the Senator I shall see. Now.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And,
wouldn’t you know it, the Senator’s head pops into the doorway
behind his great-aunt’s chair. His eyes I can only describe as
horrified. As he backed quietly away, he waved his hands frantically.
I’d seen the gesture before. It meant get rid of them. Don’t let
them know I’m here. Do whatever it takes. He disappeared just as
Oddstetter turned to look behind her. I swear I could actually hear
ol’ Tom-Tom running down the hallowed halls.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh!”
I said, drawing her attention away from the door. I reached into my
inside pocket and pulled out my phone and looked down. “It’s the
Senator,” I lied, “perhaps he’s been delayed.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
For
a good ten minutes I paced and pretended that I was talking to him.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh
dear,” I said. “Yes, yes, I can see how important that would be …
oh, definitely … I’ll get on that right away, sir … oh, I’m
sure she’ll understand … national importance and all … I’ll
be sure to do that.” I hit the End button and made a sad face at
the Senator’s great-aunt. She wasn’t having it.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
waved her hand to shush me before I could even speak.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Bull
hockey,” she said. “Whatever it is you were going to say is all
bull hockey.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Now
Mrs. Oddstetter ...” Diego had swiveled his chair around and I
could see him trying to keep a straight face.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That’s
one of the oldest tricks in the books,” the old lady said. “Tom-Tom
perfected that back in high school when he tried to wheedle out of
homework.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
name Tom-Tom did it. Diego guffawed. The old biddy’s eyes lit up. I
think she was enjoying herself. There was no getting around it. I
held my hands up in surrender.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Busted,”
I said. I came around the other side of the desk and perched on the
corner near her chair. “I could get fired for telling you this,”
I said, leaning toward her, “but To<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">―
</span></span>the Senator had a wee bit too much bubbly last night at
the reception for the Chancellor and he, well, he overslept.” I sat
back.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Now
<i>that</i> I believe,” Oddstetter said. “The boy always liked
his booze and sleep.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Diego
cleared his throat and got up to start a pot of coffee.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So,
what’s the plan then, Mr. Administrative Secretary?” She adjusted
her helmet and pulled her satchel, handbag, whatever it was, closer
to her chest.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My
mind raced with all the appointments I had that day, the calls, the
visits, the school groups ….</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The
plan is for Diego here to clear my morning schedule,” I said,
enjoying how rigid Diego’s back got, “then taking you to the
commissary where I will listen to all you have to say about the
whales ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Birds,”
she interrupted. “It’s birds, not whales, though they’re in
trouble too.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Right,
birds. You’ll tell me all about them over a nice meal – I promise
to take copious notes for the Senator – and we’ll discuss our
options.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
can’t be eating any beans or macaroni and cheese slapped on a
tray,” she said. “My heart.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
was all I could do not to roll my eyes. “I assure you,” I said,
rising and holding out my hand to help her get up, “that there will
be no beans or mac and cheese. This is the <i>private</i> Senate
commissary where you can have whatever you wish.” Tom-Tom was going
to owe me big for this one.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Our
repast proved … interesting … and it took the better part of a
day. It turned into a meal, a walk on the Mall and coffee besides.
The woman’s satchel held every single record she’d been keeping
for well over 50 years. With each of her revelations, I, being who I
am, couldn’t help but envision leverages with the Senator, with
corporations, wherever I could find them. I’m the Senator’s
creation. So sue me.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Arriving
at the office early the next day, I was pleased to see Diego, looking
dapper as always, already at his desk, and coffee brewing in the
corner.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“He’s
waiting for you,” was Diego’s greeting.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Who?
The Senator? Already?” It was unprecedented for the old man to be
there before me. Will wonders never cease. I grabbed a cup of java,
passed through my office just long enough to grab my notes, and
headed into the inner sanctum.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Good
morning, Sir,” I said, then stopped. He wasn’t alone. One of my
least favorite people, Leela Cantrell, was sitting on a corner of the
Senator’s desk, her long legs crossed and one of her shoes dangling
from a toe. She and the Senator jumped to their feet like I’d
caught them making out or something.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Prescott,
my boy!” the Senator boomed. “Come, sit, sit! This is an
auspicious day, the day we’ve been waiting for! You know Ms.
Cantrell, of course, and I’m pretty sure you know the reason she’s
here.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
shook hands with Leela, who had the preternaturally white teeth of
someone who went with the Gleam choice at her last teeth whitening.
Yeah, I knew why she was there. I just thought it was a bit early for
one of the handlers to make their appearance. And, once again, I was
out of the loop, which peeved me to no end.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Prescott,”
she said, this time settling into the chair next to mine, “there
are exciting times ahead.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hm,”
I allowed. “There is, of course, a number of things that should be
addressed first ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
Senator flapped his hands. “Not to worry, not to worry, Mr.
Right-Hand Man,” he said. “It’s early days. But the waters, the
waters, they must be tested.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
must have seen the sour look on my face and the glance I’d given to
Leela.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Er,
yes, we do have a lot to cover,” the Senator said. “Lee<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">―
</span></span>uh, Ms. Cantrell was just leaving.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Leela
sprang to her feet and air-kissed the Senator. “I’ll have a
courier drop off a copy of S.130.IS with your secretary,” she said.
“It’s your ace, trust us.” She fluttered a hand in my direction
and strode out of the room.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Once
the door was shut behind her, I said, “Isn’t it a bit early to
think about the presidential bid, Sir? And what’s S.130.IS? I’m
not familiar with that bill. It obviously hasn’t been introduced.
Who wrote it?” God, I hated being uninformed.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
Senator shuffled some paper on his desk. “Son, it’s never too
early these days. Leela and her people are exceptional handlers. And
don’t get your tighty whities in a twist over the bill; I’m just
taking a look at it.” He straightened his tie. “FamilyFirst!
wrote it,” he mumbled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“FamilyFirst!?”
I cried. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Those fringe lunatics?
Don’t tell me, it’s the Liberty to Lynch Act? The Relieve Homos
of Life Act? The Virginity Preservation Act?” I couldn’t help it,
those nuts set me off every time. They were bringing the party down.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
no, nothing quite that severe,” the Senator said, though he was
blushing. “You and I, we’ll go over it together, not to worry.
You’re still my right-hand man. I need you around to keep me
honest.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
was a bone and I took it, for the time being. No one, after all,
could keep Tom-Tom honest except Tom-Tom.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
congratulations,” I said, knowing that the handlers didn’t just
show up for no reason. Whoever they worked for – and no one knew
who that was – always backed winners. “In the meantime, we need
to talk about your great-aunt, and birds.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Think
about it, Son,” he said, clasping his hands behind his head and
leaning back in his chair, “lil ‘ol me, from the back hills of
the great state of M ______, president of these here United States.”
He always lapsed into southern-speak when talking about the
presidency. He wasn’t Southern by a long shot, and he obviously
wasn’t listening.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Sir,”
I tried again, “this bird situation. Your great-aunt is on to
something. I think it could have <i>major</i> repercussions insofar
as the presidency is concerned.” I used both barrels. It worked. He
snapped his chair forward and got into listening position, but with
reluctance, I could tell. He sighed.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Old
Aunt Ethel,” he said, rolling his eyes, “what’s the old
battleaxe up to now? Birds, you say? What about ‘em? And what’s
it got to do with bein’ president?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
While
I had his limited attention, I outlined the situation: The birds
were disappearing, presumably extinct. Only a handful of species
could now be found in the Northern hemisphere. Insect populations
were increasing and resistant to all poisons thus tried, but the
birds that were left wouldn’t touch them. His great-aunt and her
cronies were blaming his party and threatening to back the
opposition.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Preposterous,”
the Senator muttered. “All of it. Why, I see and hear birds every
day!” He stood up abruptly and went to the window and peaked
through the blinds, then pulled them open. “See?” he said,
pointing to a tree. “There’s one of those red birds with the
funny hair-do. It’s out there every day singing away.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“They’re
called cardinals,” I said. “Every day?” I asked. There was
something a bit off about the bird, but I couldn’t quite put my
finger on it. “Hmmm,” was all I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
Senator let the blinds snap shut and went back to his desk. He was
getting revved up, I could tell.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“And
another thing,” he said, “wouldn’t all those bird mucky-mucks
at universities, those orthropodists, have noticed and said something
by now? Huh?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The
Education Reclamation Act, remember?” I said. “And it’s
ornithologists. Most colleges and universities eliminated those
departments in favor of maintaining their sports programs.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
Senator frowned, then brightened. “I haven’t seen one thing on
the Internet about this,” he said. “Old farts like my great-aunt
who spend their time wandering around with binoculars would surely
have created a buzz.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
tried to keep incredulity off my face. “The Internet Protection
Bill?” I reminded him. “The Senior Liberty Act? Most ‘old
farts’ have come out of retirement to go back to work and don’t
have the time, or the money, to use the Internet. Not many do.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
gosh,” was all Tom-Tom could come up with. Then I gave him the
really bad news.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Your
Aunt Ethel also told me that there are just four bald eagles left in
the all of North America.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
That
got his attention.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What?
Just four eagles? Why, that’s downright un-American! Where are
they? Can we round ‘em up and cage ‘em or something? Bring ‘em
to the capital?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This,
this, was why I made six figures.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Er,
no Sir, I don’t think that would work. As for where they are …
they’re not in your state. They’re in, well, the state of your
most likely opponent for the presidential race. If the media are
correct about who that person is, of course.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
hadn’t looked so shocked since I had to tell him that his Cadillac
was made in China. He leaned back in his chair, making the pouty face
he was famous for. I, of course, had been adding the whole
presidential bid to the pot and stirring.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
still have some research to do,” I said, “but I think it’s just
possible we could make this work for us.” His eyes lit up and he
scooted his chair forward.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Tell
me what you’re thinking,” he said eagerly.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Not
possible, yet,” I demurred, causing him to pout once more. “We’ll
talk in a couple of days.” I stood up and went to the door. I have
to admit it gave me a little thrill to leave him hanging that way.
The District thrived on the Power Game and I, quite frankly, was good
at the game.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Diego’s
pencil-thin mustache was quivering and he clutched a handkerchief in
hand.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“A
courier just left this, this, thing,” he said, pushing a folder
toward me. He dabbed at the corner of one eye.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Ah,
the proposed bill,</i> I thought, it must be a doozy. I flipped open
the cover and scanned it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“How
can he do that?” Diego wailed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
slapped the cover shut, surprised, but not overly. The handlers have
always had an agenda. I did my best to reassure Diego that it would
never see the light of day and hurried off.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
was time to see Larry.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06079213798998281561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-74561190335023649452015-02-06T12:15:00.002-06:002015-02-06T12:15:46.381-06:00Merry-Go-Round<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfsQdNq3-d7CudNWsNFByinrYDdEYsJ548qFfQpVbm0hX8ek3emGMjV4UK1jZb_s-_BzNh-2M8aQSilqZfNaMDEGRN8hr5_XuYAJHTghJ6N7OCpy2nBLXveduwg_BMc_8hxIZYa7EhF5U/s1600/Park_bench_WPC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfsQdNq3-d7CudNWsNFByinrYDdEYsJ548qFfQpVbm0hX8ek3emGMjV4UK1jZb_s-_BzNh-2M8aQSilqZfNaMDEGRN8hr5_XuYAJHTghJ6N7OCpy2nBLXveduwg_BMc_8hxIZYa7EhF5U/s1600/Park_bench_WPC.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image via <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Park_bench_WPC.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><br />The children screamed and rhymed as the merry-go-round spun, each taking a turn (or not) at jumping down and pumping their legs around the dusty track when the group had fallen below some arbitrary but important minimum speed. The less adventurous pumped back and forth on the swings or clambered around the jungle gym. At the edges, in the shade, parents watched (or didn’t watch) from benches. <br /><br />Mark sat next to Lauren, watching a girl hop down from the merry-go-round and wind the group up. Mark, in dark jeans and gold-swirled shirt, sat with his arms folded and his ankle resting over a knee. He twirled the pointed toe of his dark cowboy boot in time to his daughter’s circuits on the merry-go-round. Lauren sat with an elbow propped on the back of the bench and rested her head on a wrist. Her legs curled behind her on the bench and she watched the playground through dark sunglasses, though an observer would be hard-pressed to know whether her eyes were on her kids or Mark. <br /><br />“I know you were sleeping with her,” Lauren said. <br /><a name='more'></a><br />His toe stopped circling. <br /><br />“It’s not like I planned it, Lauren,” Mark said. “Besides, I broke it off months ago.” <br /><br />“Was she worth it?” <br /><br />He gave a little shrug. “No, not really.” <br /><br /> “I really thought we had something, Mark.” She reached with a red-lacquered nail and picked at invisible lint on her white shorts. “There was a time when you found any excuse you could to be near me. We talked about all those things we wanted to do, the places we wanted to go, and what life would be like once the kids were in college. <br /><br />“And then it all changed one day, like you flipped a switch. You know how I could tell? Any jackass can buy affection with flowers, but you weren’t like that. You understood that it’s touch, skin on skin, that shows others how we feel. The way your arm would brush against mine as we’d pass in the hall or your hip would bump mine when getting coffee. You stopped touching me, and I knew it was over.” <br /><br />Mark looked away and rubbed at the stubble on his chin. His daughter leapt back on the merry-go-round, and shimmied along a handlebar to the center. Lauren put a hand on his arm; he turned to look at it. <br /><br />“Yeah, I’m sorry.” He swallowed. “I got involved with Ivy, and I don’t know why. I started leading this double life. I felt like everyone would find out unless I kept it together. I was like an actor playing me, if that makes any sense. She wanted me to leave it all behind, the kids, the house, the job. Just run away to some island and open up a dive shop. Charter out to tourists during the day and margaritas on the beach every night. For a whole night, I considered it. Give my life a big adios and hit the reset button with Ivy. Then the sun came up and I called it all off. Everything’s a mess now, I know, but I’m going to clean it up.” <br /><br />Lauren’s hand squeezed. Mark noticed she had stopped wearing her wedding ring. <br /><br />“It’s not too late for us.” <br /><br />Mark said, “It is. It has to be. The divorce papers are signed and the decree goes out next week. I need time to get my head straight, my family straight.” <br /><br />“Let me help you.” <br /><br />He took Lauren’s hand off his arm and held it between them. “I can’t be with you.” <br /><br />“But you could be with Ivy, couldn’t you?” <br /><br />“It was almost you. Be glad it wasn’t,” he said.<br /><br />She shook her head, large hoop earrings glinting in the patchy shade. “What made you choose her over me?” <br /><br />“Honestly? The first thing I noticed about you was your hair. Long, luscious, the way you flipped it back over your shoulder when it got in your way. That flip was just about the sexiest thing I had ever seen. Totally natural, graceful, but with this attitude. It was like you refused to get that short mommy-friendly haircut all the other women get by their second kid. You didn’t surrender, and I admired that. <br /><br />“And then you cut your hair.” <br /><br />Lauren snatched her hand back and turned away. Mark stared at her for a moment, then went back to watching the kids. <br /><br />“You’re unbelievable,” Lauren said. “You deserve everything you’re going through.” <br /><br />She got up and walked away, her hand rubbing at the back of her short-cropped haircut. She shouted at her boys and headed for the parking lot. <br /><br />“I love you too, Lauren.” <br /><br /> Wadehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08229835689380630612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-63768072130051737742015-01-30T17:21:00.002-06:002015-02-06T12:18:01.599-06:00Where Have You Gone, Joe DiMaggio?<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
By
Bettyann Moore</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image Courtesy of WikiCommons</td></tr>
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Brian
McAllister loathed sports of all kinds, so he wasn’t about to do
it. Besides, he was too busy on the farm. Thea, poor Thea, who’d
once gotten beaned in the head by a foul ball while sitting behind
home plate, had a pathological – though understandable – fear of
the game, so that was out. And Grandpa McAllister? He, too, was too
busy on the farm, but his secret reason had more to do with the fact
that he was jealous of Joe DiMaggio. It was complicated. </div>
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So,
it was up to Grandma McAllister to usher her grandson, Porpoise,
through the seasons of T-ball, Pee-Wee and Little Leagues and, with
any luck, into the high school’s nationally-recognized baseball
program. She was up to the task. It was she, after all, who bought
the boy his first bat and ball – a huge red plastic bat and whiffle
ball – when he was barely out of diapers. When her own farm chores
were done, it was common to see her just a few feet away from
Porpoise, patiently tossing the ball directly at the bat while her
grandson, many seconds too late, swung wildly.
</div>
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In
time, the real estate between Maggie McAllister and Porpoise
increased, while the bat and ball shrunk. Maggie’s reflexes were
tested time and time again by line drives.
</div>
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“The
boy’s a natural,” she told her husband over dinner one night.
</div>
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“Hmph,”
was all Dolan McAllister said.
</div>
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“Well,
he is,” Maggie insisted, “and it’s time he got into the
school’s feeder program.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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While
the school didn’t exactly acknowledge the existence of such a
thing, it was well known throughout the district that the feeder
program was the reason why the school’s baseball trophy case was
crammed full. The first step was T-ball where kids as young as four
hit out-sized balls off a flexible pipe, a tee, and learned the
basics of the sport. As far as Maggie was concerned, Porpoise’s
skill was way beyond T-ball, but she knew the unwritten rules. The
fact that the teams were “parent-coached” by the high school’s
junior varsity coach assured her that Porpoise would be noticed.
Maggie was sure that he’d be progressed into Pee-Wee in short
order, though it pained her that he’d have to wait until he was
five.</div>
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It
wasn’t that she merely liked baseball, Maggie McAllister adored it
– the smells, the sounds (when a ball connected to a bat’s sweet
spot, she fairly swooned), the banter between players and in the
dugout, the cheers as a ball sailed toward the wall, lost in the
lights, even the hotdog vendor’s sing-song pitch. <i>Take Me Out to
the Ballgame</i> was second only to <i>Ave Maria</i> in her heart. It
was Joe DiMaggio’s fault that she loved it so.
</div>
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The
first time she’d seen him play, as a pre-teen, all knees and
elbows, while visiting an aunt in New York, she knew she was in the
presence of greatness. He was at the height of his career, smack in
the middle of his 56-game winning streak, and it was electrifying for
young Maggie O’Brien to see the reverence, the respect thousands of
fans had for the gangly, weak-chinned star with the loping gait, and
how much he loved the sport. When he smiled his lopsided grin at her
while signing an autograph after the game, he stole young Maggie’s
heart. Sure, he was married, but a girl could dream, couldn’t she?
She kept a scrapbook with every bit of DiMaggio trivia and stats she
could find. The day he retired in 1951 was the day she finally said
“yes” to Dolan McAllister, her suitor of five years. And when
Joltin’ Joe married Marilyn Monroe (that hussy) on January 14,
1954, Maggie McAllister was giving birth to her son Brian, dismayed
into labor three weeks early. The romance was over, and none too soon
for Dolan McAllister.
</div>
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Maggie
still had the scrapbook squirreled away up in the attic, along with
DiMaggio’s autograph and other mementos. After Porpoise was born,
she affixed a sticker to the box to assure it would go to her
first-born grandchild. She fully intended to be there, though, the
first time he was big enough to don the #5 jersey, still in its
original wrappings. And she would make darn sure that the boy played
center field.
</div>
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When
DiMaggio became the pitch man for Mr. Coffee, Maggie bought the
product in bulk. They made great wedding gifts, she insisted, and
brought one to every wedding, whether the couple drank coffee or not.
The bloom might have been off the rose, but the plant thrived.</div>
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“Do
I have to?” Porpoise moaned. His grandmother had burst into the
house while he was enjoying Saturday morning cartoons. “Billy Doyle
might come over to play.”</div>
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Maggie
bristled and clicked off the TV.
</div>
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“It’s
the first day of Little League,” she crowed. “Justin Porter will
be there. You like Justin, don’t you?” Maggie knew he would be
there because he was the coach’s son.</div>
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“He’s
okay,” Porpoise admitted, “but he cries a lot and his mom is
weird.”</div>
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Maggie
was familiar with the mom, Jean Porter. They’d sat side-by-side
during any number of T-ball and Pee-Wee League games over the years.
The boy was prone to tears, but he had a mean slider. The mother was
prone to shouting invectives at umpires and coaches.
</div>
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A
horrible thought suddenly occurred to her.</div>
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“You
like baseball, don’t you, Porpoise? It’s fun, right? And you’re
a darn good hitter.”
</div>
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Porpoise
lay on the floor in front of the silent TV, looking up at his
grandmother’s worried face. He sat up and reached for his toes, as
if stretching.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Sure,
Gran, I like it okay,” he said.
</div>
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It
wasn’t exactly a glowing endorsement, but Maggie ignored that.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“All
right, then,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Go get into
your uniform and let’s get cracking!”</div>
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Porpoise
rolled onto his knees with a groan and stood up. At the age of eight
he was already nearly as tall as his grandmother. He shuffled off to
his room.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Come
on!” Maggie yelled, clapping her hands loudly behind him, “hustle!”
</div>
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<br /></div>
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The
boy stepped up his pace, but rolled his eyes. His grandmother was
spending way too much time with baseball coaches.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“What’s
all the racket?” Porpoise’s mother said, coming out of her
bedroom tightening a robe around her waist. She headed into the
kitchen to make coffee. “You’re here early, Margaret,” she said
to her mother-in-law.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Little
League starts today,” Maggie said. “I want that boy there early
to run some sprints, show the coaches he’s on his toes.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Thea
frowned down into the empty coffee pot and went to rinse it out. “Is
it that time already?” she said. “I was thinking of taking
Porpoise and Billy Doyle to the zoo today.”</div>
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Maggie
sank heavily onto a kitchen chair, wondering what in the world her
daughter-in-law was thinking. Porpoise had the makings of an
All-Star.
</div>
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“You
think you’ll come to one of his games?” she asked, just a tad
wickedly, pretty certain she knew the answer.</div>
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“I’ve
been to most of the games,” Thea protested.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Watching
from the car isn’t exactly the same as from the stands,” Maggie
said.</div>
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“You
know, I just might sit in the stands next time,” Thea said,
surprising Maggie. “He’s good, huh?” Thea rinsed out a coffee
cup and poured her first cup.</div>
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“He’s
darn good,” Maggie declared. “Just needs a little more
enthusiasm. If you and Brian were there cheering for him, that might
help.” She couldn’t help rubbing it in.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Hm,”
Thea said, plunking herself down opposite her mother-in-law. “I
don’t see posters.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Posters?
What are you talking about?”
</div>
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<br /></div>
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“You
know, posters, of baseball stars hanging in his room, those kind of
posters. Actually, he’s never talked about taking down the
Winnie-the-Pooh’s he has over his bed.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Phffft,”
Maggie said, with a dismissive gesture. “Maybe he just likes
Winnie-the-Pooh.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Or
maybe he only plays because he knows that’s what <i>you</i> want.”
Thea couldn’t help getting in just one little dig.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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“I’m
ready, Gram,” Porpoise said from the doorway. Both women wondered
how long he’d been there.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Great,
Sport!” Maggie said, slapping the table and pushing herself out of
the chair. She corralled the boy around the shoulders with one hand
and tugged on the brim of his cap with the other. “What say you and
I stop at the sports store on the way back from practice?” she
said. “Get some baseball cards? A book? Maybe some posters?”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Uh,
sure Gram,” Porpoise said.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Thea
rolled her eyes as the two hustled out the door.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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Porpoise
was thinking about the Boston Cream Pie that his mother said she was
going to make that night for dessert. Last time she’d let him have
two slices because he’d emptied the dishwasher for her. Maybe if he
did it again ...”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Porpoise!
Porpoise!” He heard his grandmother’s voice calling out from
behind the dugout. “Porpoise, it’s your turn at bat!”
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Graham
Kolski elbowed him on the bench. “Geez, Porpoise, wake up, wouldja?
Coach is giving you the stink-eye.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Porpoise
leapt to his feet, but got tangled in the glove he had lying between
his feet. He stumbled against the splintered wall in front of them.
All the kids laughed and the quick glance he got of Coach Porter’s
face looked like double stink-eye to him.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Geez,
he thought, it’s just a practice game. He grabbed a bat from the
barrel and trotted out to the plate. Justin Porter eyed him from the
mound. As usual, he was chewing a wad of bubble gum, chopping on it
like the camels Porpoise had seen at the zoo. He took a couple of
practice swings before he stepped up to the plate, thinking about
camels and zoos.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No
hitter, no hitter,” the first base player sung out. Porpoise shot
him a look; in a normal game against another team, Bobby was one of
his best friends. Didn’t Porpoise always hand him a clump of paper
towels every time he threw up before a real game?
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As
he waited for the pitch, Porpoise wondered what would happen if he
just let strikes sail past him or just whiffed every time. He sighed
and brought the bat up. He knew what would happen. His grandmother
would hate him because his coach would take him out of the next
game’s lineup, maybe all of the games. Justin wound up and smoked
the ball toward him. Porpoise didn’t have time to think.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That’s
my boy!” Maggie screamed as the ball sailed toward right field, way
beyond the reach of the boy who played there. Porpoise rounded the
bases, getting high fives from the boys on each bag; they were his
teammates, after all. Coach’s stink-eye had disappeared; he slapped
Porpoise on the back as he headed toward the dugout.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Good
going, son,” he said while his own son scowled and kicked dirt on
the mound. “You’ll be batting clean-up next week against the
Ravens,” he added.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Maggie
was thrilled by the news.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
knew you had it in you, Porpoise!” she crowed. Then she chuckled.
“Mrs. Porter was none too happy about how many hits you had off her
son today, let me tell you. Practically made me deaf in one ear.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
I heard her,” Porpoise said. They were having a celebratory sundae
at Mel’s Malt Shoppe. “I hope he doesn’t get into any trouble.
It was just practice. He got grounded a couple times in Pee-Wee.”
He licked his spoon clean and wished he could lick the dish, too, but
Gram would have a fit. Still, it was a good day when a guy got a
sundae <i>and</i> Boston Cream Pie.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Maggie
scoffed. “Grounding the boy won’t do any good,” she said. “What
he needs is more practice is all. Speaking of which, how about I toss
you a few when we get home?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Porpoise
groaned. “I don’t know, Gram, I’m not feeling so good.” He
rubbed his belly for good measure.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Gram
cut her eyes at him, but didn’t argue. She took him home and before
she left, stuck her head into the kitchen to let Thea know he was
feeling poorly. There was no Boston Cream Pie for the boy that night.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
day of the game against the Ravens dawned cold and overcast.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No
rain-out, no rain-out,” Maggie muttered as she drove over to pick
up the boy. She half expected to find her grandson still in bed or
watching TV, but he was suited up and waiting at the end of the drive
for her, his glove dangling from the end of his bat.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Gram,
guess what?” Porpoise said as he climbed into the car.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What?”
Maggie had seldom seen the boy so excited. Maybe her enthusiasm for
the game was rubbing off on him after all.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Mom,
Dad <i>and</i> Grandpa are coming to the game!” he cried. “They’re
gonna come after chores, but they promised, they did.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Why
that old coot ...” Maggie said, “I mean, your grandpa never said
a word about it. That’s wonderful, Porpoise!”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Mom
even said she’d sit in the stands,” the boy went on.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Grand!
They all can sit next to Mrs. Porter and me. I’ll be sure to save
room.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Okay,
Gram. I just hope Mrs. Porter isn’t too loud.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
I wouldn’t count on that ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“How
come she’s always so mad?” Porpoise asked. “It’s just a
game.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Maggie
bristled at the phrase, but held her tongue. “Hard to say,” was
all she said. “I guess she and Coach Porter have high expectations
for Justin.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“High
expec— I dunno, all I know is that Justin always cries before a
game. He cries afterward, too, if we lose.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Maggie
took her eyes off the road and glanced at her grandson, who was
picking a thread from his glove. She frowned and turned back to the
road ahead. By the time they pulled into the parking lot, the sun had
come out. It was a great day for baseball.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
was the top of the fourth and Bobby Meisner’s turn at bat. The
Ravens were giving the Wombats a game; it was all tied at 3-3.
Porpoise had just handed Bobby a wad of paper towels to wipe the
vomit from his face. At least Coach had put a barf bucket in a corner
of the dugout, but it was filling up fast. Porpoise glanced out into
the stands and saw his family shuffle to their seats behind home
plate. They were late, but at least they were there. Porpoise ignored
his mother’s frantic waving. Waving at your mom wasn’t cool. He
saw Mrs. Porter smile up at his mom, then turn back to the field,
scowling. Justin wasn’t having the greatest day. The Ravens already
had 10 hits against him.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
wish Coach would bring in Joey Wolski next inning,” Graham Kolsky
whispered to Porpoise, even though he knew better. The Ravens were
their biggest rivals; no way would Coach take his own son out of a
game against them, especially the first game of the season.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,”
Porpoise said, “but Justin would have to fake a broken arm or
something.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kolsky
hooted. “Nah, it’d have to be two broken arms and one broken
leg!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Full
body cast,” Jimmy Olson whispered from the other side of the bench.
Kolsky had just taken a swig of Gatorade and it shot out of his nose.
Bobby Meisner would have been barfing, but he was safe on first with
a single. It was Porpoise’s turn at bat.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Just
a hit,” Coach said as Porpoise headed out to the plate. “A line
drive to the pitcher’s breadbasket.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Did
Porpoise hear right? He came to a dead halt, head down.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Coach
pounded his hands together a few times. “Ha! Just kidding, boy,”
he said. “Just show us some bat.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Slowly,
Porpoise made his way, trying to shake off the words. He pounded the
dirt from his cleats with the bat and squared up. He was so
distracted he didn’t hear his grandmother whistling or his mother
cheering.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Once.
Twice. The ball whumped into the catcher’s mitt.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“C’mon,
Lard Butt, swing already!” The voice came from the Ravens’
dugout. Porpoise hoped his grandmother couldn’t hear it.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Whassamatta,
Girly Boy?” the catcher muttered under his breath as he threw the
ball back to the pitcher. “Them was puffballs. The good stuff’s
comin’.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Screw
you,” Porpoise said, with a little thrill. He’d heard his uncle
say it once to a guy who’d called him a fag. It was the closest
he’d ever come to swearing. He didn’t like it. His bat circled
the air over his right shoulder.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Suddenly
the ball was there, right where it shouldn’t be and Porpoise swung.
He swung hard. He was about to head to first when he heard the
sickening sound of air being sucked out of a void and saw the pitcher
double over.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Asshole,”
the catcher swore as he was threw off his mask and ran out to the
mound. It seemed like everyone was running out there. Porpoise didn’t
know what to do. He looked to Coach, but just shot Porpoise an
incredulous look before he tore off to the mound. Porpoise looked up
into the stands, but no one was paying him any attention. He shrugged
and walked to first base. It was all he could think to do.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
Ravens pitcher only had the wind knocked out of him, but was taken
out of the game, just in case. Porpoise was glad the boy was okay,
but Porpoise felt like he had a big target on him every time he
stepped out onto the field.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Watch
out you don’t get beaned at bat,” Kolsky said. “The new guy
might be aiming for you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
didn’t <i>mean</i> to hit him,” Porpoise said for the millionth
time. Kolsky winked. “Doesn’t anyone believe me around this
place?” At least Coach seemed to believe him, but then he kind of
had to after what he’d said. Porpoise wished the game was over and
he could just go home. He wasn’t having any fun at all.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Finally,
it was the bottom of the ninth. It was five-all. The Ravens had a man
on third and their last batter, a lefty, had two strikes on him.
Justin Porter was on the mound. Even in center field, Porpoise could
hear Mrs. Porter screaming instructions from the stands. He could
even hear his grandmother yelling. He guessed it was pretty exciting,
but he found himself rooting against his teammate and his team. If
Justin got the man out, they’d have to play overtime. If the Ravens
managed to get the guy on third home, though, they could finally all
go home.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Coach
Porter, expecting a bunt, waved the field in closer.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Justin
let the ball go and Porpoise saw the batter hold the bat parallel to
his body. It was a perfect bunt. The ball struck the end of the bat
and started bouncing between the mound and first. By the time Justin
had corralled it, the third base runner was halfway home and everyone
in the park was on their feet. Bobby Meisner, the catcher, had his
body stretched out between the runner and the plate, his toe just
touching the rubber, his glove ready for Justin’s throw.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
From
his vantage point, Porpoise couldn’t see what happened. It looked
like the runner was safe, just like the ump called it, but he
couldn’t be sure. He started trotting to the infield just as Mrs.
Porter, screaming bloody murder at the ump, came sailing out of the
stands. It was like she was doing a high dive. One second she was
standing next to his grandmother and the next she was flat on her
face in front of the bleachers, still screaming “He was out! He was
out!”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
only other sound was Justin crying. Most stood with their hands over
their mouths, shocked, while Mrs. Porter, the contents of her purse
strewn over the hard-packed clay, scrambled to her feet and tried to
scale the fence between her and the umpire. Suddenly a gasp went up
and the spectators turned their backs on the embarrassing sight and
moved as one toward something else in the stands.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Porpoise
scanned the crowd. He saw his mother and his father; his father was
bent over and his mother was standing behind him, her hands covering
her mouth. He couldn’t see his grandmother or his grandfather, then
there he was, standing and lifting. The crowd parted as he hurried
down the aisle, carrying the limp body of his wife. Porpoise threw
down his glove and tore off toward them.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It
was a mild heart attack. She’s going to be fine,” Dolan
McAllister said the second he walked into the hospital waiting room.
He looked gray around the gills and older than Porpoise had ever seen
him.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
had been a long, tense wait for the news. Porpoise had never seen his
father cry until Dolan came over to hug him to his big barrel chest.
The sudden realization that his dad was a son, like Porpoise himself,
made his stomach feel like it was sitting in his chest. He stared and
stared until his dad was all cried out.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Can
we see her?” Porpoise asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
His
grandfather picked him up like he was a little boy. It felt good.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Not
just yet, son,” Dolan told him. “Your mom and pop can look in on
her, but it’ll be a couple of days until she’s ready for
visitors.” He nodded at Brian and Thea who left to see Maggie.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Porpoise
clung to the big man’s neck. “I hate baseball,” he whispered in
his granddad’s ear.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It
was just a really bad day, son.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
I hate it to bits!” Porpoise insisted, clinging more tightly.
“People are mean.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Dolan
held him away and peered at the boy’s face, then let him slide to a
stand. He went to sit on one of the worn, bandage-colored couches,
pulling Porpoise along with him.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Competition
does strange things to people, boy,” Grandpa said, shaking his
head.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Why
do they even bother playing?” Porpoise asked. “That’s what it’s
supposed to be, you know, <i>play</i>. And fun, it’s supposed to be
fun! Doesn’t anyone ever have any fun when they play?” Porpoise
scrunched up next to his grandfather and leaned against his chest.
Dolan was quiet for a good long time.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yes,
Porpoise, they do have fun. At least some do,” he finally said.
“And I’ll tell you what. Next Saturday, after your grandma is
safe at home, I’ll take you somewhere you can see it for yourself,
maybe join in if you want to.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Porpoise
hung his head. “Can’t,” he said. “I have a game.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“To
heck with the game,” Dolan growled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“But
Gram ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Don’t
worry about your grandma. I’m pretty sure she’ll understand.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
slept for most of the long drive, but when he woke up in his
grandfather’s big, ancient Oldsmobile, Porpoise recognized where
they were.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“We
going to Uncle Stan’s?” he asked. He sat straighter and rubbed
his eyes. The houses were tall and close together, the front yards
tiny. Uncle Stan was really his great Uncle Stan, his grandfather’s
brother, who still lived in the house they’d grown up in.<br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yep,
he’s expecting us.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Porpoise
liked Uncle Stan. He did magic tricks sometimes and he always had a
lot of treats. They turned off the narrow street and pulled around to
the alley behind the house and parked. The yards were bigger back
there and Porpoise saw kids running down the alley. Uncle Stan came
out to greet them.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Gerald
McAllister, you get bigger every time I see you!” Uncle Stan never,
ever called him Porpoise.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
and you get uglier every time I see you,” Dolan said, hugging his
brother.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Stan
ruffled the boy’s head. “Whoa, lookie here,” he cried, pulling
something from behind Porpoise’s ear. “The boy’s growing
quarters in his ears! Have you ever seen the like?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Porpoise
laughed and took the offered quarter; he liked this particular trick.
Just then a group of kids came running down the alley, laughing and
fake-punching each other.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Where
are they going?” Porpoise asked his uncle.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“They,
my young friend, are going to play the best game ever invented,”
Stan said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Porpoise
squinted up at him. “Yeah? Is it any fun?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Fun!
Fun? Why, it’s so much fun that your grandpa and I used to play the
very same game. It’s so much fun that mothers don’t see their
kids ‘til they round ‘em up for supper, way after dark.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What
is it?” The little group had begun to follow the gaggle of kids
down the alley, which opened up on a vacant lot. “They’re gonna
play here?” Porpoise said. Looking at all the junk piled up here
and there and the broken glass twinkling in the sunlight, he knew his
mother would never let him play in such a place.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
kids were seemingly milling about until one of them picked up a stick
and started swinging it like a bat.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,”
Porpoise said, “it’s baseball.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
By
now they were close enough to see that, instead of bases, there was
an old tire, a hubcap and even a flat inner tube instead. Home plate
looked like an old raincoat. The “ball” appeared to be unraveling
until a kid pulled some tape out of his pocket and wound it around
the sphere.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
not baseball, Gerald,” Stan said. “Stick Ball, the greatest game
on earth. These are the true Boys of Summer.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Some
of them are girls,” Porpoise pointed out.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Indeed
they are!” his grandpa said, gripping his grandson’s shoulder.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“They
don’t have enough kids for two teams,” Porpoise said. “They
don’t even have enough for one team!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Nope,
they sure don’t,” Uncle Stan said. “But they don’t care.
Three, four … heck, even one person can play if they want. It’s
for <i>fun</i>, Gerald. For fun.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Porpoise
cocked his head and watched as the motley crew played. They laughed a
lot. They rolled on the ground (his mother would definitely kill
him), they played wherever they wanted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“They
probably wouldn’t let me play,” Porpoise said wistfully.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
I don’t know, kid, I bet they would,” Uncle Stan said.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And
as if Uncle Stan was working some of his magic, one of the boys
started trotting out toward them.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hey,
kid!” he yelled. “Wanna play?” He was looking right at
Porpoise.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Go
ahead,” Grandpa said. “It’s okay.” He gave his grandson the
slightest shove and Porpoise took off.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Have
fun, boy!” Grandpa yelled after him. Then, more quietly, “Make
sure to have fun.”</div>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06079213798998281561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-87137071069439873662015-01-23T12:00:00.000-06:002015-01-23T12:00:01.432-06:00Wichita Pete<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnycvFDnUBusFgAIaGURB0C_4oTzfwGoOXkVONdgnGBk0dX8YTcos2Rl04e_SKAdQGIeQhWAwIuo_ySUtcPYoQpT_V7uhNx-rfl0Jc9XBtP2zFKRxw6Wht1L1Z_rz36J8D1_bGwGMoxc/s1600/Gangster_film_still.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnycvFDnUBusFgAIaGURB0C_4oTzfwGoOXkVONdgnGBk0dX8YTcos2Rl04e_SKAdQGIeQhWAwIuo_ySUtcPYoQpT_V7uhNx-rfl0Jc9XBtP2zFKRxw6Wht1L1Z_rz36J8D1_bGwGMoxc/s1600/Gangster_film_still.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image via <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Me,_Gangster_film_still.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a></td></tr>
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<br /><br />When I was growing up, there was an old hermit at the end of the street named Wichita Pete. I always remembered him as an old man who wore baggy GI surplus pants held up with red suspenders. His hair was always slicked back with something like Vaseline, but different because it never stayed put like the high school boys’ did. His basketball-sized face had this thin gray moustache like there were cigarette ashes balanced on his upper lip. Wichita Pete lived at the edge of the neighborhood, in a little tarpaper shack with its blackout curtains. Kids dared each other to ride bikes past his yard, or knock on his door and run away. If Mother had ever found out about that, she would have whipped me, but she was in charge of the Ladies’ Auxiliary, and always busy. I don’t know if Father would have cared, he pretended Wichita Pete’s house didn’t exist. Nobody seemed to know what Wichita Pete did with his time, but somebody heard that he was once the meanest gangster in Kansas City.<br /><br />There was one time, at the market, where I saw Pete shuffling down the aisle, razors in one hand, and a can of peas in the other. He stopped to look down at me, but I wanted him to move along, since I had been sneaking vanilla wafers right from the box, and had the evidence hidden behind my back. He kept looking at me, that ashy moustache of his quivering. He smelt of wood smoke and cesspit, with something else that I would later learn was lavender. We stared at each other for a while, and I knew he knew about the cookies. His runny eyes stared into mine, but I didn’t feel like he was going to yell at me about it, or get me in trouble. Instead, my arm was yanked out of its shoulder socket by Mother. The cookies dropped to the floor, still open, but she was dragging me down the aisle and hadn’t noticed. <br /><br />“I didn’t say anything to him, Martha,” Wichita Pete said.<br /><br />“Time to leave, Chester,” she said, and stared a mean one at Pete. I took one glance back, and saw him picking the box from the floor. Mother tanned my butt right there in the car, and I understood I was not to go near Pete again.<br /><a name='more'></a><br />So of course, after supper, I ran out of the house and rode my bike to the end of the street. Not alone, because I wasn’t crazy. Harry Fender and I sat on our bikes watching Pete’s house from two doors down. We slapped at mosquitos and kept our ears cocked for the ice cream man.<br /><br />“Think he’s home, Chet?” Harry whispered.<br /><br />“’Course he is. There’s smoke in the chimney.” I pointed to the gray wisp trickling up into the sky.<br /><br />Harry screwed up his face. “Why’s he got a fire? It’s gotta be 90 degrees yet.”<br /><br />“Bet it’s hotter than hell in there,” I said.<br /><br />“Yup, damn hot. Hot as hell.” Harry tried and failed to hold back a smile. Such was the extent of our swearing in those days, words taken from Sunday school readings. Any conversation outside of adult hearing was worth a swear or two. <br /><br />“Bet he’s got a still, and cooking up moonshine,” I said. <br /><br />Harry shook his head. “Nuh-uh. Gangsters don’t make moonshine, they just sell it, dummy.”<br /><br />“You’re a dummy.”<br /><br />“You’re a damn dummy!”<br /><br />“You’re a double damn dummy, one-two-three-no-callbacks!” And by my invoking those sacred words, Harry could only shut his mouth and roll his eyes at me before turning back to Wichita Pete’s shack.<br /><br />“I bet we could sneak right up to his windows,” Harry said. He pointed to the overgrown lawn, with weed patches nearly as tall as I was.<br /><br />I didn’t like the idea. Crawling around on my belly though itchy grass, nettles, and thistles I could handle. But then what? What if Pete caught me? He’d line me up against a wall and shoot me with a Tommy Gun, that’s what. But if I said this to Harry, he’d call me chicken. So I made up a lie. “What if he’s laid traps, like bear traps?” I said.<br /><br />Harry looked at me and squinted. “Why would he do that, Chet?”<br /><br />“In case the cops raid his place. The cop steps in the bear trap and while he’s yelling for help, Pete comes out and plays them a song on his Chicago Piano.” I held up an imaginary Tommy Gun and swung it back and forth, making machine gun sounds.<br /><br />He looked puzzled and glanced between me and Pete’s shack. I could tell he was about to call shenanigans, so I made up a hell-damned big lie. <br /><br />“Al Capone did it,” I said. “Shot up a whole squad of G-men in backwoods Wisconsin trying to sneak up on his cabin.”<br /><br />Harry looked surprised, but quickly nodded. “Oh yeah, now I remember. I heard that on the radio once.”<br /><br />That made me wonder if there really was a radio show I had missed. I decided it was time to change the subject.<br /><br />“I think he’s burning papers,” I said.<br /><br />“Newspapers?”<br /><br />“No! The papers with all the secret names and addresses of other gangsters. He’s burning the evidence.” Actually, the idea seemed real to me as soon as I said it. What else could a gangster be doing with a fire on a day like this? Whatever it was, it had to be bad.<br /><br />Harry wiped the sweat from his eyes and shook his head. “Why would he do something like that?”<br /><br />My brain told me the answer instantly. “Because if the G-men catch him with the book and go arrest all the other gangsters, they’ll kill him in prison with piano wire.” <br /><br />“Oh.” He paused. “Where do they get the piano wire?”<br /><br />“They get their molls to bake it into a cake, of course.”<br /><br />He nodded, then thought about it, squinting at the shack. “Don’t the guards know about that trick?”<br /><br />“Nope. I think only gangsters and us kids know about that.” It must be, I thought, because why else do they keep doing it in the radio action hour and movies?<br /><br />“Dummies,” Danny said.<br /><br />“Damn dummies,” I agreed.<br /><br />“Double-damn dummies straight to hell!” Danny grinned. A breeze shot through the street, and it felt better than ice cream. But something in that breeze made Harry stupid; me too, I guess.<br /><br />“We have to do something,” Harry said. “He’s going to get away with it!”<br /><br />I started backing my bike away. “What? I’m not going in there.”<br /><br />“Me either,” Danny said. “But if the cops showed up right now, they’d catch him red-handed! We’d be heroes, Chet!”<br /><br />I could see it. Danny and I would get our pictures in the paper, and the mayor would pin badges on us and everything. I bet they would even give the two of us the day off from school and have a parade.<br /><br />“Okay. Let’s go get the police.”<br /><br />“What if he runs away? Someone should keep watch.”<br /><br />I wasn’t going to wait around by myself, so I was going to volunteer to get the police. Danny, however, had already swung his bike around and before I could say anything, was half-way down the street. “You keep watch,” he said over his shoulder, “I’ll go get ‘em.”<br /><br />I tried pedaling after him, but my foot chose that moment to slip off the pedal as I gave a mighty kick-start. My bike went tumbling over, and the handlebars punched me in the stomach. My hands and left knee came up raw. I looked back in time to see Danny tear around the corner and disappear. <br /><br />I picked up the bike and limped to the curb. The scrapes started bleeding, but not that bad, though they would sting once Mother put iodine on them. I didn’t want to go home and face that torture. I didn’t want to stay in eyesight of Wichita Pete’s shack either. I decided to go to my friend Gary’s house and play in his crummy tree fort, but as I got up, I realized Danny would come back with the police, and I would be gone. Danny would get his picture in the paper by himself, and I would be watching from the sidewalk while he and his shiny badge marched down Main Street in his parade. So instead, I walked my bike to some bushes and decided to wait it out.<br /><br />The problem with our plan was that I had no idea how long it would take Danny to get the police. Would he call on the phone at his house? No, he said his mom was always on the phone. Would he ride to the station? I listened for sirens, but didn’t hear any. I was getting tired of waiting and the sky was getting darker. Soon, the sun would be gone and the mosquitos would swarm like black fog. <br /><br />The smoke still eked from Pete’s chimney, and I thought about going home. The police weren’t going to show, were they? But then again, I had waited too long to quit now, and I still didn’t want to face the iodine on my oozing hands and knee. So I stayed, and not only did I stay, the deepening shadows gave me the idea to get closer. I slid through the grass like an Indian scout, checking each new clump for hidden traps, careful not to snap the brittle stalks or rustle the yellowed blades. I didn’t find any bear traps, but I did find plenty of thistles, snake vine, and a fire ant nest that would have doomed a tenderfoot like Danny. Before I knew it, I was right up to Wichita Pete’s window. <br /><br />That surprised me, looking up and seeing a crack of lamp light escaping past Pete’s blackout curtain. I looked back and couldn’t make out the way I’d come. The sun had disappeared behind distant trees, casting the whole neighborhood in gloom. I couldn’t make my way back now, not without blundering into all the stuff I’d just avoided. I stood and peeked through the crack between the curtain and the windowsill.<br /><br />The heat blasted my face, like opening the lid on a boiling pot. The smell of sweat and that flowery-leathery smell someone would later tell me was lavender hit me. I could only see a man’s shirtless sweat-slicked belly and red suspenders through the crack, but it had to be Pete. He stopped long enough to gather unseen things in his arms, and then heaved them over to the corner by the fire with a grunt. He stirred something with an old canoe paddle. If he was burning papers, it seemed an odd way to go about it. Then Pete headed to a table by the window. I ducked, but not before seeing his hand reach into a familiar yellow box of vanilla wafers.<br /><br />The rustling of cookies against cardboard made my heart beat faster. Seconds later, the rustling was replaced by muffled crunching and the retreating tread of bare feet on floorboards. My mouth watered with memories of the wafers’ creamy goodness, though the lavender in my nose ruined the taste in my imagination. Were those the same cookies I had to abandon in the market? How was it Pete got to have them and I didn’t? <br /><br />Then my belly turned cold. When the cops showed up and arrested Wichita Pete, he would see me and would know I was the one who turned him in. He wouldn’t be able to shoot me with his Tommy Gun, but he would be able to rat me out for eating the store’s vanilla wafers. I wouldn’t get my picture in the paper then. The cops might even put me in jail in the cell next to Pete. I thought about piano wire and swallowed.<br /><br />I reached into my pocket and pulled out the kitchen matches Mother said I should never touch because they were not toys. I slid the box open, and there they were, all lined up like little soldiers, with white uniforms, red faces, and white hats. I pulled one out, slid the box shut, and held the tip to the striker. Light flared, and sulfur cleared the lavender from my nose. I held the match to the grass, and the sweat on my body dried as the fire grew. I ran. Two, three, four, and then the whole box of matches flew as I struck each match and tossed them to the side, seeding the weed patch with fire. I ran back to my bike and pedaled the fastest any boy had ever pedaled before, all the way home.<br /><br />Mother was not happy as I walked through the back door. <br /><br />“You’re filthy, Chester! And what did you do to your knee?”<br /><br />“Fell off my bike,” I said.<br /><br />Father looked up from the paper and peered at my knee. He went back to reading without a word. Mother marched me to the bathroom and scrubbed my hands and knees so hard, they started bleeding again. The iodine came out as the smell of smoke drifted in through the window screen. I sucked in through my teeth as Mother swabbed the purple stuff all around the scrapes and she was about to ask me something when sirens came wailing down our street. She told me to stay put and ran from the bathroom. Our screen door banged along with all the neighbors’ and people started shouting. Mother cried out above them all, and I did not see her again that night.<br /><br />The next day, there was nothing left of Wichita Pete’s shack except for the chimney. The paper had a big story about the fire, but Danny and I weren’t mentioned, because that dummy had chickened out at the police station and rode home. I saw him with the other kids watching the firemen stomping out the shack’s last embers, but he pretended not to see me. We never talked about it again.<br /><br />At lunchtime, Mother wasn’t in the kitchen. I found her in the bedroom, holding a white handkerchief to her nose. Her eyes stared past the walls and her head bobbed tiny bobs. I watched her for some time, wondering if I was in trouble or not. Had she found out? Mother believed in the silent treatment when she was really mad at me.<br /><br />“Mother?” <br /><br />She looked around and seemed surprised to see me there in the doorway. She gave a quick smile.<br /><br /> “Is it lunchtime?” she asked.<br /><br />“Yeah. Are you all right?”<br /><br />She nodded and began folding the handkerchief. “I was just thinking about that poor man and the fire last night.”<br /><br />“He didn’t die,” I said. “The newspaper says they’re still looking for him, but he’s gone.”<br /><br />Mother nodded, but still seemed sad. She walked past me and opened a dresser drawer. That flower scent trailed behind her. I asked her what it was.<br /><br />“It’s lavender, Chester.” The handkerchief went in the drawer’s far corner and was then closed. <br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /> Wadehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08229835689380630612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-36128823220857957082015-01-16T17:11:00.001-06:002015-01-23T09:28:12.970-06:00Reunion<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
By
Bettyann Moore
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As
far as Toby was concerned, leaving things to chance was not an
option. It had been ten years since Georgie had set eyes on him and
when she saw him again, he would be perfection personified. For 20
years he’d kicked himself for never telling her how he really felt
about her, back when he had the chance, so she’d married someone
else, moved away and the chance was gone. Until tomorrow.</div>
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Tomorrow
was the Putnum High Class of 1995 20-year reunion. Georgie was a
widow and was going to be there (he’d checked on both counts), Toby
had dumped his lazy, meth-head wife years before, and there would be
a full moon. Everything good that ever happened to Toby happened
during a full moon. He should have known better to marry the
meth-head; they’d met during a new moon.</div>
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It
only appeared that Toby started prepping for the reunion a year ahead
of time. It was just a little plastic surgery. He’d always hated
that little knob on the end of his nose anyway. And joining the gym?
Everyone did that nowadays. Plenty of people worked out before and
after their jobs every day. And on weekends. It made giving up
alcohol and cigarettes all that much easier. And the Berlitz crash
course in French? Improving one’s mind was all that was. <i>N</i><em><i>'est-ce
pas?</i></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-style: normal;">Now
it was the Friday before the reunion. Toby took the day off from work
and was sorting through his wardrobe. He was missing that night’s
informal mixer; a friend of a friend on Facebook had lamented that
Georgie wasn’t going to be there, so there was no need to be there
as far as he was concerned. He was friends on Facebook with just
about everyone from his old class – even the jocks and cheerleaders
– but not Georgie. Toby had his reasons. He couldn’t articulate
them, even to himself, but they were good enough for him.</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-style: normal;">There
was brunch, golf and dinner on Saturday, and a small good-bye
breakfast on Sunday. If he played his cards right, Georgie would only
be saying farewell, not good-bye. Toby laid out a lightweight pair of
black slacks for brunch, along with a light blue dressy/casual shirt.
He didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but that’s what the
salesman called it and it highlighted his baby-blue eyes. His
cleaned, shiny golf clubs wore their little socks in a new bag he’d
already loaded into his LandRover. It was gauche to wear shorts on
the course, even if it was July and hotter than Hades, so he opted
for a sharply pressed pair of chinos and a blue Izod shirt. When he
wasn’t working out at the gym, Toby was at the driving range;
Georgie, he understood, played semi-pro golf after college. </span></em>
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<em><span style="font-style: normal;">The
highlight of his wardrobe, though, was the $500 blue pinstriped
designer suit Toby had tailored to fit his buff body. It took him the
better part of a year to pay for it and the tailoring. He held it up
against his naked body and admired it in the full-length mirror.
Paired with a light gray shirt (with cufflinks!) and a Hermes tie …
it was killer. He hung it carefully in the closet above the
spit-polished black shoes he would wear. Then he reached up to the
closet shelf and took down a stack of student annuals, as well as one
other book.</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-style: normal;">He
pulled on a pair of boxers and settled against the headboard, the
annuals in a chronological stack next to him, the extra book beneath.
He started with freshman year, like he always did. </span></em>
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<em><span style="font-style: normal;">And
there she was, Georgette “Georgie” Bouchard, on page 14, sitting
awkwardly with three others, the new members of the student council.
Even though it was in black and white, Toby knew she was wearing her
favorite yellow sweater, the one that went so well with her shiny
ebony hair and jet black eyes. And again on page 21, as Ophelia in
the school production of </span></em><em>King Lear</em><em><span style="font-style: normal;">;
it was unheard of for a freshman to play that plum role. There was
even a picture of them together on page 50: Students Pitch in to
Feed the Hungry. Georgie was putting a box of cereal into a big
barrel and Toby, the skinny math geek who’d accidentally stepped
into the frame behind her, was struggling with a case of canned
goods. The best part, though, was her handwritten dedication scrawled
across the photo: To Toby, Thanks for being my best friend!!!! She
used little hearts to dot the ‘I’s’ and on the exclamation
points. </span></em>
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<em><span style="font-style: normal;">Toby
knew he should skip the next picture, but he never did. Page 96, the
end of the year freshman dance. There she was in a short pink dress,
slow-dancing with Purcell Dresner. Toby had been working at his
box-boy job, not that he would have gone, but he was glad he hadn’t
been there. It was bad enough that he had to do best friend duties
for weeks ahead of time on the phone with her. What should I wear?
He’s shorter than me, should I wear heels? Should I kiss him
afterward? What if he puts a move on me? It was enough to break a
guy’s heart.</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-style: normal;">With
a sigh, Toby set the book aside and picked up his phone. Nostalgia
always made him hungry for Chinese food, his one indulgence. He hit
the speed dial button for Lo Don’s, then the number three when its
automated system kicked in; he was in the mood for beef and broccoli.
He picked up the sophomore yearbook and paged through it without much
enthusiasm; the same with the others. Georgie with Adam Nesbaum, the
quarterback. Georgie getting flowers pinned on her prom dress by Pete
Younger, the star center forward. Georgie being crowned homecoming
queen by her boyfriend John Pashower. Toby sighed again, then reached
for the extra book, which brought a smile to his face.</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-style: normal;">It
was obviously homemade. It had a wooden cover and the pages were
glued inside; they were awkward to turn. It was called simply:
</span></em><em>Imagine</em><em><span style="font-style: normal;">
(after the John Lennon song) and its “authors” were Georgette
Bouchard and Tobias Ivy. They started writing it when they were 10.
They took turns writing chapters, though some of them were no longer
than a sentence or two. At 10, they had no other goal than to be
Authors, with a capital A, and the story didn’t begin to take shape
until the mid-’90s when they latched onto the idea that religion
had played a major role in creating havoc all over the world. </span></em>
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<em><span style="font-style: normal;">Raised
by staunch Catholics who thought Vatican II was way too liberal, this
was pretty brave and scary thinking. They hid the book and worked on
it when they were supposed to be doing their homework. In their
teens, though, Georgie became more militantly anti-religion while
Toby fell victim to his hormones. While she railed against the
church, he made moon-eyes at her, to no avail. When Georgie finally
did discover boys – but never the right boy, him, Toby thought –
the book was put aside and Toby filled the role of confidant. </span></em>
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<em><span style="font-style: normal;">The
doorbell startled Toby out of his reverie. He threw on a robe,
grabbed tip money for the delivery guy and flung open the door. </span></em>
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<em><span style="font-style: normal;">And
there she stood, Georgie – older, even more beautiful – and
smiling wickedly at him with a bag of Chinese food dangling from one
hand and a bottle of red wine in the other. Toby was dumbstruck.</span></em></div>
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<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">You
… you cut your hair,” was all he could think to say. It was
short, very short, giving her an appealing pixie waif look.</span></em></div>
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<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">That’s
how you greet your oldest and dearest friend?” Georgie cried,
pushing past him and into his tiny kitchen. She plunked the bag and
the bottle on the counter and turned to him, her arms open wide.</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-style: normal;">Toby
knew his breath smelled funky and his hair was probably doing the
rooster tail thing it did whenever he lounged in bed, but he stepped
into her embrace anyway. She felt insubstantial, all bones and air.</span></em></div>
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<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Holy
crap, Tobster!” she said, holding him at arm’s length. “You’re
like the Incredible Hulk or something.” She gave his biceps a
squeeze and he couldn’t help himself, he flexed, making her laugh.</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">What
are you doing here?” Toby said, running a hand through his hair and
tightening the belt on his robe. “I thought you weren’t coming
until tomorrow.”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">Georgie
cocked her head at him and went in search of a corkscrew. “You have
a lot to learn about greeting a long lost friend,” she teased. </span></em>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Sorry,”
Toby said, adding, “It’s in the drawer next to the fridge.”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Ha!”
Georgie held the tool aloft and went to work on the bottle.
“Glasses?” she asked. </span></em>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">Toby
took two glasses down and she poured. </span></em>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">To
old friends and new beginnings!” Georgie said, raising her glass. </span></em>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">Toby
liked the sound of that and raised his as well, even though he hadn’t
touched a drop of alcohol in almost a year. He sipped while Georgie
drained hers in one, long pull. She swayed a bit and Toby realized
that she’d already been drinking.</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Excellent,”
she declared, pouring another. “This will go well with Chinese. I
hope you ordered enough. And don’t worry, I tipped the driver.” </span></em>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">I’m
sure there’s plenty,” Toby said. “It doesn’t look like you
eat very much anyway.” </span></em>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Toby,
Toby, Toby,” Georgie slurred. “You used to be such a mannerly
boy.”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">Toby
blushed. “I’m sorry, Georgie,” he said. “I’m just in shock
is all. I didn’t think I’d see you until tomorrow and look at me,
I’m in my robe ...”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">That’s
why I’m here now,” Georgie said, picking up the bag and heading
into the living room. “Tomorrow won’t be happening, at least for
me anyway. And when I saw you weren’t at the mixer, I held Zack
Smith’s arm behind his back until he gave me your address. And here
I am. You look cute in your robe, by the way.” She sat down heavily
on the sofa, nearly spilling her wine.</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">You
won’t be at the reunion?” Toby thought of his $500 suit hanging
in the closet, the new golf bag, the shoes. “Look,” he said,
getting an idea. He went to the kitchen, grabbed a couple of plates
and handed them to her. “Why don’t you serve up the food and I’ll
just go throw something on, okay?” It occurred to him that at any
other time he’d be thrilled to be half-naked in Georgie’s
presence, but he went to get dressed anyway.</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">She
didn’t bat an eye at him when he returned just a few minutes later,
hair slicked back and dressed in his brunch outfit. </span></em>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">This
is good,” she said, mouth half full. “Sit, eat!”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">He
sat next to her and picked up a plate. He wasn’t very hungry. His
mind was full of all the things he wanted to say to her at the
reunion and now he wouldn’t get a chance. He was more comfortable
now that he was dressed, but where to begin?</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">You
look great, Georgie,” he said, finally taking a good look at her.
He realized that she was dressed simply, in a rather worn t-shirt and
plain skirt with no jewelry other than a ring on her left hand.
Widowed almost 10 years now and still hadn’t taken off her wedding
ring? Still, she looked amazing, her skin clear, pale and as smooth
as when they were kids.</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Thanks,
Tobias,” Georgie said, taking another slug of wine. Toby noticed
that she’d brought the bottle into the living room as well. She
looked at him appraising. “You look … wow … you look amazing.
What’d you do to your nose, though?”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">He
touched the tip of his nose. He wasn’t about to admit to plastic
surgery. “Grew into my face I guess,” he said, shrugging. Right
then he decided to rush on in. “Look, Georgie, I’m so glad you’re
here; there’s a bunch of stuff I need to say.”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">Georgie
swiveled around to face him. “What?” she said, “you’re not
curious about why I won’t be at the reunion tomorrow? Not even
wondering why I needed to see my old best friend today?” </span></em>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Well,
uh, sure I am,” Toby stammered. “So, tell me, why aren’t you
going to be at the reunion tomorrow and why’d you </span></em><em>need</em><em><span style="font-style: normal;">
to see me?”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">I’m
glad you asked,” Georgie said. She looked down at her hands and
frowned. “Last question first: I’m scared and you were always
there to help me overcome my fears.”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Scared?
I was?”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Of
course, you big galoot. You were always my best cheerleader. I didn’t
make a move without checking in with you first.”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">Toby
pondered this for a second. “I guess ...” he said, “but what
are you scared of now?”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">The
answer to that also answers question number one,” Georgie said. “I
fly to Nigeria tomorrow.”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Nigeria?”
Toby didn’t know much about other parts of the world, but there had
been awful news coming out of Nigeria. Killings and beheadings. “So,
if you’re scared, Georgie,” he said, “don’t go.”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Oh,
I’m going,” she said. “I volunteered. My order gave me a
choice.”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Volun
… your order?” </span></em>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Yes,
the Sisters of St. Louis.”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Sisters
of ...”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Toby,
you’re echoing,” Georgie said, laughing. </span></em>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Sorry.
Uh, you’re a nun then?” Toby’s mind reeled. “Didn’t you
used to be married?” He nodded at the ring on her finger.</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Widows,
even divorcees, can become nuns,” Georgie said. She laughed and
twirled the ring around on her finger. “And this, my dear, is </span></em><em>the</em><em><span style="font-style: normal;">
ring, the cliché, the one that shows that I’m married to Christ.”
She wrinkled up her nose. “Weird, huh?”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Wow,”
Toby said, getting up to pace. “I mean, wow. I never would have
thought. What about the book, our book, </span></em><em>Imagine</em><em><span style="font-style: normal;">?
I was just reading it ...”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Oh
my God,” Georgie cried, her eyes lighting up. “You still have
that relic? I’d love to see it. Man, we were so young and confused!
Go get it,” she commanded.</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">What
could he do? Georgie’s wish was his command, always. Toby fetched
the book, taking the time to slip into some clean sweats as well.
They spent the next hour reading and exclaiming over the book,
recalling what was going on in their lives during each entry. They
were in tears of laughter by the time they were done.</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">Still
chuckling, Georgie wiped her eyes and got serious. “Talk about
rude,” she said. “I interrupted and you never got a chance to
tell me what you wanted to say.” She folded her hands on the book
in her lap and sat up straight. “I’m all ears.”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">Toby
looked at her sweet, eager face, the same face that looked at him
with complete trust so many years before, the face he’d missed so
much.</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Oh,”
he said, “I just wanted you to know how much I’ve missed, you
know, our friendship, and how I hope life has been good to you. And
that I love you. That’s all, just that.” It was all he could do
to hold back the tears.</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">I
love you, too, Tobias, and I’ve missed you as well. Will you write
to me? Will you send me long, newsy letters and care packages?”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">I’d
like nothing more,” he replied, knowing his desire for much more
than that was nothing than dust riding on a breeze.</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Excellent,”
Georgie said. “Now, how about yearbooks? You have those, too?”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">Toby
rolled his eyes. “You mean the black and white testament to
Georgette Bouchard’s teenage desirability?” He was trying, he
was. </span></em>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">Yes,
that,” Georgie said, clapping her hands. “And by the way, how
come you and I never … you know, were a couple?”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">Toby
was practically swooning inside. He gave Georgie his most deadpan
look.</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<em>“<span style="font-style: normal;">You
were always too wild for me,” he lied. “I liked my girls conservative.”</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06079213798998281561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-29905608377147092672015-01-10T16:09:00.001-06:002015-01-10T16:09:10.780-06:00Sins and Accolades<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-V2rP78ZJMZqW9JkENdGQOf99M-Q_oCAUKiRpqQtSoZZvceGbOwKjbM1IB2-vL-TQWKK-PV31whlkf50ZUsziCd5iOJNSOM8i4JIS2cWxrjU_YJHzIjXkU6dihJHdaHXDijNpnzfqZdI/s1600/RosecrossJewelery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-V2rP78ZJMZqW9JkENdGQOf99M-Q_oCAUKiRpqQtSoZZvceGbOwKjbM1IB2-vL-TQWKK-PV31whlkf50ZUsziCd5iOJNSOM8i4JIS2cWxrjU_YJHzIjXkU6dihJHdaHXDijNpnzfqZdI/s1600/RosecrossJewelery.jpg" height="320" width="208" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<i>Author note: This is an urban fantasy story featuring characters from the story <a href="http://blackcoffeefiction.blogspot.com/2012/05/carne-fresco.html" target="_blank">Carne Fresco</a></i><br /><br />The boy: nine or ten, snarls and thrashes at the bed sheets tying him to iron bedposts. His bloodshot eyes roll in darkened sockets and he gurgles black speech with a voice deeper than any human ought to produce. The priest: Bible held over his heart with one hand, eyes closed, Latin rites on his lips. His other hand quivers, sending the crucifix twirling in circles on its silver chain over the boy’s head. My hand: steady, holding the priest’s head in my pistol’s iron sights.<br /><a name='more'></a><br />The priest’s head turns slightly to me, yet still faces the boy’s. “Leave us,” He says.<br /><br />“No,” I say. <br /><br />His head tilts. “You saw my church?”<br /><br />“I did.”<br /><br />His head turns back, like I’m dismissed. “So you understand.”<br /><br />Yeah, I understand. “You have to let him go. What you are attempting is against the law.”<br /><br />The boy stops thrashing and looks at us with a predatory calm.<br /><br />“Your law. What about God’s law?” the priest says.<br /><br />“Take it up with Gabriel and the Choir. Your side knew what they were giving up when they signed the accords.”<br /><br />The boy smiles and licks his teeth.<br /><br />The crucifix flashes as the priest’s fists clench tighter. “What about what he did? You saw!”<br /><br />I recall the empty church, the splintered door, the blood, and the soot. “Arson, vandalism, petty theft, and I doubt those animals were humanely butchered. Not my department, Padre. His papers are in order, and unless you can produce a writ for this exorcism, yours are not. You’re under arrest, Father.”<br /><br />He sets his shoulders. “I’m not afraid to go to my maker while doing His work,” the priest says.<br /><br />“I’m loaded with Black Martyrs, Padre,” I say. “Cursed bullets.”<br /><br />“Soul killers,” the priest whispers. We stand there frozen as he thinks it through. “Forgive me my weakness, Father.” He lowers the bible and crucifix, and then hangs his head. I can’t blame him. Having all your Brownie points with the man upstairs wiped out as a .45 slug tunnels through your organs can make even the most zealous pause.<br /><br />The boy cackles, and I reach behind my back. A quick flip, and Balance flies, tumbling one and a half times before embedding itself point-first in the wall near the boy’s head. The boy’s eyes cross as they focus on the black blade.<br /><br />“Keep it up, laughing boy,” Balance says. “We’re hauling your ass in too.”<br /><br />The ride back to the Judicar’s office is thankfully quiet, each perp watching the city going by through opposite windows. I haul them into booking, the priest by his steel handcuffs, the boy by his copper ones. A man who could be Conan the Barbarian’s bigger, uglier brother sits behind the booking desk. He looks up and scowls at me before rolling his eyes to the side. I follow his gaze to a wooden bench where a grey-templed man in a suit rises. He opens his mouth as I push the two perps to the booking desk.<br /><br />“I must protest my client’s rough handling, officer,” he says. I wonder if he has even bothered to learn his client’s name yet.<br /><br />“Good Evening to you too, Booger,” I say.<br /><br />“It’s pronounced Boo-jhee,” he says. “It’s French.” He says it like I don’t already know he grew up in Jersey.<br /><br /> “<i>Excuse-moi s’il vous plait, je ne parle âne,</i>” I say. <br /><br />Bouguer blinks. “What?” Balance rattles in its sheath in silent laughter.<br /><br />“Never mind,” I say. “Which one of these is yours?”<br /><br />Bouguer sniffs. “As if the diocese could afford me.”<br /><br />I nod to the man behind the desk. “You can have him after Gimel the Oathbreaker here is done processing them.”<br /><br />“But my client is the victim here! Detained and nearly murdered by that charlatan.”<br /><br />“That boy is possessed by evil,” the priest says.<br /><br />Bougeur smiles and speaks as if addressing a second-grader. “That entity is simply – and legally – operating on this plane in his host.”<br /><br />“Parasite!” The priest shouts.<br /><br />Bouguer grins and points at the priest. “Then you admit your corporealism! Officer, write that down!”<br /><br />I don’t have time for this. It’s almost five a.m., and the end of my shift. I turn to Gimel the Oathbreaker and say, “And I leave the rest to you, Gimel. One count of illegal exorcism for the Padre, and hold the kid for busting up a church, assuming someone files a complaint.”<br /><br />“That’s a secular matter!” Bouguer shouts. “Not your jurisdiction!”<br /><br />Gimel frowns at me. “Thanks terribly, Angus.”<br /><br />I shrug and turn to go, but Gimel holds up a slip of vellum in his pancake-sized hand. “Magister wants you to check this out.” <br /><br />I grab the writ and read the address, a place somewhere on the other side of town, which makes me wish the Judicar’s office paid overtime. Or simply paid. I look up at Gimel, who just smiles. I shrug and turn to leave, but the priest steps in front of me.<br /><br />“There’s no redemption for you,” he says. “The Almighty will consign you straight to hell for what you are. “<br /><br />I pause and nod, as if considering, then whisper in his ear. “Problem is, Father, Lucifer doesn’t want me either.”<br /><br />*<br /><br />Sovereign Pawn and Trade is an immaculate brick storefront in the dirtiest part of town, well-lit with nothing but plate glass between the passerby and glittering items on display. On the door, a sign reads: <i>Abierto las 24 horas. Se Habla Demoníaco, tambien.</i><br /><br />I park the car next to a razor wire fence surrounding a boarded-up plumbing supply store, and set the locking wards. The door locks click as the hair on my arms stand on end and ozone fills the air. Anyone messing with my ride was going to find out if they could juggle lightning. If not, too bad, better luck next lifetime. If so? Then it wasn’t worth the effort to fight over a used Chevy; they could have it. <br /><br />I pull Balance and give it a look at the shop.<br /><br />“See anything interesting?” I ask it.<br /><br />It pops and hums a song to itself, something I recognize from the radio, but can’t place. “Whoever designed the place actually had two brain cells rubbing together,” it says. “On top of the usual glamours that keep the squares away, there’s locking wards and astral barriers that would make a high shaman crap their pants.”<br /><br />“Anything that’s going to be a problem?”<br /><br />“Pfft! Even if the Magister’s writ doesn’t let you in, all the wards are open.”<br /><br />“Getting in doesn’t worry me,” I say.<br /><br />In theory, the juju on the writ was proof against all barriers to entry, like a mystic battering ram. The problem was, anyone worried about such writs usually just left the wards open and threw the wards into lockdown after the schmuck with the writ passed the threshold. Then the writs couldn’t do a thing to get said schmuck out. I asked why once, and all I got was “Magic is funny that way.”<br /><br /> “Don’t worry, Angus,” Balance says, “If it all comes tumbling down around your head, I’ll still survive.”<br /><br />“Thanks.”<br /><br />“Don’t mention it. By the way, where did you learn French? I thought you didn’t read anything unless Elmo was on the cover.”<br /><br />“I could leave you in the car,” I say.<br /><br />It vibrates in my hand, like a rattlesnake about to strike. “Don’t be a baby, Angus. Now let’s go find an excuse to eviscerate whoever’s inside. What are we looking for again?”<br /><br />“Plenary indulgences,” I say<br /><br />“Those the things with the chocolate center, or the peanut butter?”<br /><br />“Just stay alert,” I say and slip Balance back into its sheath. <br /><br />I feel the tingle of restrained power as I pass through the door. The shop is bright and clean, with its wares neatly arranged in glass cases or arranged on shelves lining the walls. The wares themselves are another matter. Pottery shards, moldering taxidermy, ill-formed candles, and books with faded lettering on the spines are on display under the glass. I think there’s a glow coming from a case with dusty jars arranged in alphabetical order.<br /><br />“Help you sir?” a voice says. <br /><br />“You the owner, or the help?” I ask.<br /><br />“My father owns the shop, but it’s a family business. I’m the manager, you might say. Torvald Gustafson.”<br /><br />The guy behind the counter is dressed in khakis and a blue polo shirt, like he just got back from a second job at an electronics store, though I don’t know of any store that would let an employee walk around with an unlit pipe in his teeth. He doesn’t flinch when I show him the writ, just waves me over to a display case featuring murky glass orbs, monkey paws, and skewers of rainbow-colored tarantulas. He pulls out a lunchbox featuring the characters from the Addams’ Family TV show, and places it on the counter.<br /><br />“Open it,” I say. <br /><br />Torvald opens the lid and spins the lunchbox around. Inside are thin biscuit-like wafers. Some crumble at the edges, but it looks like anyone trying to eat one would crack a tooth. I don’t sense anything special about them.<br /><br />“These are indulgences?” I say.<br /><br />Torvald switches his pipe to the other corner of his mouth and smiles. “Of course not. Selling controlled relics like plenary indulgences is quite illegal. However, there are some uninitiated types that will simply not take ‘no’ for an answer. This is what we sell them. Caveat emptor.” <br /><br /> “Buyer beware,” I say.<br /><br />“Just so.”<br /><br />I point to the wafers. “So what exactly are these?” <br /><br />“Teething biscuits. You know, those cookies you give babies to gnaw on.” <br /><br />I pick one up and sniff at it. Smells like cinnamon. I toss it back into the lunch box. “So why would the Judicar’s office send me down here looking for indulgences?”<br /><br />Torvald shrugs and spreads his hands. “Perhaps a competitor, or a disgruntled customer.”<br /><br />“Then you don’t mind if I look around?” I ask, knowing the Judiar’s writ allows me to whether Torvald likes it or not.<br /><br />Torvald’s pipe switches mouth corners again as he nods. “Go right ahead.”<br /><br />I turn and wander through the shop, past finger bones, vials of holy water, demon blood, black cloaks, white pointy hats, rings, amulets, angel’s tears, and a menagerie of preserved animal parts. There’s even a weed trimmer in the corner. I arch an eyebrow back at Torvald. <br /><br />“What’s up with Lawn and Garden?” I ask. “This weed whacker possessed or something?”<br /><br />“No, perfectly mundane.” He pauses as I stare at him. “We are a pawn shop, after all.”<br /><br />I nod and continue circling around the shop. It doesn’t feel right. Maybe the place is legit, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something. Places like this always have something to hide, items that fall into that grey area between what the Judicar allows and what is proscribed. But I can’t find anything like that. The shop is too clean. <br /><br />Torvald is leafing through a magazine, but his eyes are on me as I move through his shop. The pages flip, flip, flip as I walk, then slow as I pass the case of glowing jars. I walk past it, and the flipping speeds back up. I pretend to read the spines on a bookshelf, and mutter to myself. <br /><br />“Wake up,” I say. <br /><br />Balance rattles in its sheath, against my vertebrae. Its voice travels through my spine and vibrates my skull as if it were coming from behind my eyes. I can expect a whopper of a headache today.<br /><br />What is it now?<br /><br />“Can you scan those jars?” <br /><br />Love potions, embalming fluid, salamander mucus, liquefied curses, extract of ambrosia, and some residue of…<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />Something weird. Get me closer.<br /><br /> Torvald straightens as I do.<br /><br />“Yes?” He says.<br /><br />“Is there anything in this place that will go off if I pull a weapon?” I say.<br /><br />He gives me a smug grin. “You mean like that hand cannon under your jacket? It’s a .45 auto if I’m not mistaken, a M1911 if I had to guess. You know, if you’re looking for something more discrete, or more modern, I have several automatics in the corner you might be interested in.”<br /><br />The problem with carrying a gun like mine is that it can’t really be hidden, even with a long coat. It bulges and pulls. The upside is that if someone notices the .45, they may stop there and miss something like a knife. Torvald waves his hand.<br /><br />“Go ahead, sir. I’ve placed the defenses on standby.”<br /><br />I nod and pull Balance. Then two things happen: Torvald’s face goes pale, and Balance swears. They speak at the same time.<br /><br />“That’s a forbidden weapon –“<br /><br />“Angus, it’s oil of innocence –“<br /><br />Torvald barks out a demonic word that hits me between the eyes. It stings, and distracts me long enough for Torvald to utter a more complicated phrase. Energy surges, and steel shutters slam over the doors and windows. I fling Balance, and dive, trusting the blade will find its own way to Torvald. There’s a flash and smell of sulfur behind me. Somebody screams, and I roll up, M1911 in hand.<br /><br />Balance is stuck hilt-deep in a shield of glowing green metal. Torvald is peeking over its edge, a twisted metal rod in his other hand, pipe still clenched between his teeth. The knife was struggling to pull itself free, but something in the shield was holding it fast.<br /><br />I line up my shot. “Put it down, Torvald.”<br /><br />“And what? Go meekly to the death chamber?” <br /><br />“They’ll make it quick. I won’t.” It’s the best offer I can make. Oil of innocence is one of the darkest materials, possession an instant death sentence. A skilled alchemist extracts and distills it from its essence as it’s released from its host. Puppy Love’s first breakup, telling your first lie, listening to your parents fight, getting conned out of your lunch money, discovering who Santa Claus is, all vent off innocence like pollen. Gather up a hundred such events, and the alchemist can distil a single drop of oil. So what happens rather than the alchemist hovering around teenage dance parties for years, they go for the big score: horror, trauma, abuse, deathbeds. All staged to waste not a single iota, and the younger the subject, the better. A hundred ruined lives yield about an ounce.<br /><br />Torvald flinches, and I fire. I’m already rolling as another fireball erupts from the twisted metal rod. The book case behind me explodes into smoldering confetti. I come up, and Torvald is still there, huddled behind his shield. I squeeze the cross-hatched grip on my pistol and whisper.<br /><br />“Flechette round, two second delay.” The gun glows and shudders as it reorders its magazine to put a bullet with with tiny razors packed around an explosive charge. It’s not as good as a grenade, but it’ll have to do. I take aim.<br /><br />“Wait!” Torvald says. He throws the shield and his metal rod away and holds his hands up.<br /><br />I stand, covering him with the gun. I could bring him in, let the system take care of him. I find I don’t want to. “You had your chance, Torvald.”<br /><br />He smiles, that damn pipe bobbing as he talks. “But you don’t know where the oil is.”<br /><br />I shrug. “We’ll find it eventually. We don’t need you.”<br /><br />“But is it justice? I thought that what you Judicar goons were so high and mighty about,” he says.<br /><br />“Why, are you pleading innocent?”<br /><br />He laughs. “In a manner of speaking, I guess I am. You see, the oil is in this pipe. A quick bite, and concentrated innocence bleaches my soul clean. I go straight to heaven with a sparkling record. You, on the other hand will have killed an innocent man, as far as the Angelic crowd will be able to tell.”<br /><br />Seraphim. More concerned with the state of the soul than details as to how it got that way. I shake my head. “You’ll still be dead.”<br /><br />“I’m dead anyway, right? And you will be facing vendetta. So let’s talk about how you’re going to walk out of here and forget about this.”<br /><br />I clench my pistol. “Load Black Martyr round.” The pistol shudders as the bullets shuffle. “You’re not going anywhere.”<br /><br />“Tsk, Tsk, Judicar,” he says. “You have what, eleven rounds in that thing? How many are Martyrs? I’m guessing not enough to counter the oil.”<br /><br />“You ready to bet on that?” I say.<br /><br />He nods. “Are you?”<br /><br />I take a step forward, he works his jaw, and the pipe stem breaks off in his mouth. Golden oil drips from the corner of his mouth. His eyes glaze, and he slides to the floor. Hundreds of childhoods wasted, and for what? My finger tightens on the trigger. I don’t care, I tell myself. Whatever happens after this will be worth it. I’ll know it, even if no one else will. I want to believe it.<br /><br />Balance buzzes, still stuck in the metal shield. I holster my gun and take a plastic baggie from a pocket and stick it on my hand like an ill-fitting mitten. I pull the remains of the pipe with the mitten, careful not get any oil on myself as I seal it up. I then plant a foot on the shield and wrench Balance free.<br /><br />“I almost had him, Angus,” it says. “But a loadstone shield? Who the hell carries one of those around anymore? Is he dead?”<br /><br />“No. We’re taking him in,” I say.<br /><br />“You’re too soft, Angus. Back in my day, we would’ve impaled the son of a bitch on the city walls over the course of a week.”<br /><br />I ignore it, and reach for a teething biscuit from the lunchbox, and use it to wipe the last of the oil from Torvald’s lips.<br /><br />*<br /><br />At the station, I meet Bouguer and the possessed kid as they’re walking out. The kid leers at Torvald, who stares back at him curiously. As near as I can tell, all that oil bleached Torvald’s mind along with his soul, leaving nothing behind. The kid, not getting a reaction turns to me.<br /><br />“I’m free, pig,” the demon in the kid says in his basso voice. “Time to play.”<br /><br />I stop and look at him. Bouguer checks his phone, though I think he’s pulling up a camera to catch me thumping his client. <br /><br />“Whattya want? A cookie?”<br /><br />I smile and pull the teething cookie from my pocket and hand it to the kid.<br /><br />“Don’t take that,” Bouguer says.<br /><br />The kid snaps his head around, I mean really around. “You’re not the boss of me!” <br /><br />“You should listen to him,” I say, “I’m a stranger. Didn’t mommy and daddy teach you not to take gifts from strangers?”<br /><br />The kid bears his teeth and bites into the cookie. The residual Oil of Innocence hits his system and his eyes roll back into his head. I catch him as he slumps to the floor.<br /><br />“What did you do to my client?” Bouguer says.<br /><br />“I believe he self-deported by ingesting a holy relic after we both warned him not to.”<br /><br />Bouguer opens his mouth to protest, then pauses. “I guess so.”<br /><br />“You’re not going to file a complaint?”<br /><br />Bouguer shakes his head. “The dumb bastard forfeited his retainer when he left this plane of existence. Let him hire someone else.” He puts his phone to his ear and makes it seem like he’s taking a call as he walks out of the station.<br /><br />The kid’s eyes flutter and open. The whites are clear as the kid scans around him. “Who are you?” he says to me with a high, ten-year-old voice. “Can I go home?”<br /><br />“I’ll get you there, kid,” I say. “I work with the police.” Which wasn’t exactly the truth, but it’s a sin I’m willing to bear. <br /></span>Wadehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08229835689380630612noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-61970680100419330642015-01-04T10:47:00.000-06:002015-01-10T16:09:19.327-06:00Sales JobBy Bettyann Moore<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf06IPuEUhPn0LPCaqkEOmp6EiJfqsASU10PM1IiqX3RXLZDJL8-siQf7ERAk2u6it-ETt1aPrLdlq0VvkgBDO54Xx_QWxSoh1LDm_dRYqXwvDCKZLjal8My1cVazU-GEYzxWY7F001Zc/s1600/Van_Allen_Christmas_1934.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf06IPuEUhPn0LPCaqkEOmp6EiJfqsASU10PM1IiqX3RXLZDJL8-siQf7ERAk2u6it-ETt1aPrLdlq0VvkgBDO54Xx_QWxSoh1LDm_dRYqXwvDCKZLjal8My1cVazU-GEYzxWY7F001Zc/s1600/Van_Allen_Christmas_1934.jpg" height="250" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy Wikimedia Commons</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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“It’s
only for one year,” Darla Wilson told her reflection in the mirror.
“One year isn’t going to kill you.”</div>
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As
she applied the last swoops of mascara, she heard her dear departed
husband’s voice in her head: “That which doesn’t kill you may
make you stronger, but it’s still attempted murder.” Darla
laughed, as she’d done so many times at Bernie’s wit. She threw
the tube into her makeup kit and sighed. Oh, how she missed that man,
now more than ever. If Bernie hadn’t died, she wouldn’t be
prepping herself to become C.F. Pratt’s newest sales clerk.</div>
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Okay,
she amended in her head as she went out to catch the 5:15 bus, it’s
not Bernie’s fault she had to go back into retail after 40 years.
That honor belonged to Irma Doltmeyer. Irma Doltmeyer who
singlehandedly got the city of Alcott to shut down its only real
library, thus ending Darla’s 40-year stint as its head librarian.
Imagine, a town named Alcott without a library!
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Darla
fumed during the short ride into town, even though she managed to
smile at those who greeted her. Everyone in town knew Darla and most
commiserated with her situation, except Irma Doltmeyer’s
sycophants, of course, which, as it turned out, ran the city council.
She’d managed to convince them that people who actually read
anything other than something on a computer could use the high school
library, or drive to Newcastle to use their library. Or read their
books online! Darla shuddered as she stepped off the bus two blocks
from C.F. Pratt’s, which with the demise of the library, was the
town’s oldest and most venerable institution.
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People
like Irma Doltmeyer didn’t understand places like the library or
even Pratt’s for that matter. A library was akin to a religious
sanctuary and its librarians like priests of learning, leading their
flocks to knowledge. And Pratt’s, well Pratt’s employed
honest-to-God sales clerks, not gum-snapping teenyboppers who didn’t
know the difference between a chemise and a chemistry set. And the
store had those and everything in between – three floors of
well-made, top-of-the-line merchandise with not one thing stamped
Made in China. Darla should know: she worked there right out of high
school and well into her 20s.
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As
she stepped into the store’s distinct interior, Darla waited for
her eyes to adjust and breathed in the sweet smell of well-polished
wood, the clean scent of lovingly folded linens and the understated
floral scent of the many vases of flowers that graced each sales
station. The old, slightly slanted oak floors beneath her feet
creaked and groaned, making her smile. They’d always creaked for as
far back as she could remember. The place hadn’t changed a bit.</div>
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“Mrs.
Wilson!” a voice called out from behind a glass display case,
“welcome to C.F. Pratt’s! We’re so happy to have you back with
us!” Up popped the unmistakable head of Ginnie Snowden, she of the
snow-white hair and bright fuchsia lipstick. She, too, hadn’t
changed a wink since Darla worked there last. She had to be at least
80 if she was a day.</div>
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“Mrs.
Snowden,” Darla said, coming around the counter to embrace the
woman, “still hard at it, I see.”</div>
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“Indeed,
Mrs. Wilson,” the old woman said, chuckling. “They’ll have to
carry me out of this place, I’m afraid. It’s too bad we no longer
carry caskets on the third floor as we used to.” She looked
wistfully upward, then clasped Darla’s hands into hers. “Oh, my
dear, I am so very sorry about the library,” she said. “I know
you loved it so. I shall miss your astute reading recommendations and
the very place itself.” She lowered her voice. “Is it true that
they’re going to tear it down to build another bank?”</div>
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“Thank
you, Mrs. Snowden,” Darla said, holding back tears. “And I’m
afraid the rumors about a bank are true.” She, too, lowered her
voice. “The mayor’s brother-in-law,” she said, nodding.
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“Say
no more!” Mrs. Snowden cried. “I know the lay of the land.” She
gestured around the still-empty store. “The only good to be said of
it all is that you’re here, you’ve come back to us.”</div>
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Just
then the ancient, metal-barred elevator clanked to a halt. The doors
shuddered open and out came C.F. Pratt Jr., son of the store’s
founder, and C.F. Pratt, III, who guided his father’s wheelchair
over to the jewelry counter where the woman waited. The old man
looked up at Darla with rheumy eyes and held up a palsied hand to
her. She grasped it warmly.</div>
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“Welcome
home, Mrs. Wilson,” Pratt the younger said. “Father wanted to
greet you himself, though he seldom comes to the store any longer.”</div>
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Darla
beamed. “I am flattered, Mr. Pratt,” she said to the old man. The
skin of his hand was softer than a baby’s. She held out a hand to
the son. His skin, too, though less loose, felt thin and velvety.
Why, she was the youngest person in the store!
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“Since
Father’s stroke, he seldom speaks,” young Pratt said by way of
apology for the old man’s silence. “I really must see him home
now,” he added. “I will be back later today to check on your
progress.” He nodded to her and to Mrs. Snowden and wheeled his
father toward the door, where an attendant waited. The women stared
fondly after them.
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“To
work then!” Mrs. Snowden said, slapping her hands together.
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“To
work!” Darla echoed.</div>
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As
it turned out, Darla wasn’t the youngest person working in the
store, but of the 12 clerks – four to a floor – she was certainly
the most familiar with the store’s inventory, except for Mrs.
Snowden. She was allowed to be a “floater” that day, working all
the floors whenever someone needed extra help. And while it was true
that the place was never thronged with customers as it had in the
past, long before the big box stores out on the highway had taken
over, every customer received personalized attention. Indeed, it was
an unwritten rule that once a clerk assisted a customer, they
continued to do so for as long as the shopper remained in the store.
Still, even with a shortage of customers, there was never a shortage
of things to do, from dusting to folding, to restocking and
re-merchandising. It was like Darla had never left.
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The
morning flew by, but by lunch time, Darla was feeling every one of
her 64 years. She treated herself to a cup of lobster bisque and
crusty bread at the store’s rooftop restaurant, added by C.F.
Pratt, III ten years before. She smiled as the warm liquid slid down
her throat; it sure beat the ugly food courts and their fast food at
the malls.
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“Ah,
there you are, Mrs. Wilson,” Pratt the younger said, weaving his
way around tables toward her. He gestured to the chair next to her
and she nodded. The waiter was there almost immediately with a
porcelain teapot and six small cookies on a plate.</div>
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“Delightful,
isn’t it?” Pratt said, looking around. He poured himself some
tea, sipped at it and sighed.</div>
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“A
wonderful addition,” Darla said.
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“And
so are you, I’m told,” Pratt said. “Your day has gone well?”
While the sales clerks didn’t work on commission, Darla knew that
each sale – the larger the better of course – counted toward a
year-end bonus. The question wasn’t really a question.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It’s
rather like riding a bicycle,” Darla said, scooping up the last
sweet drops of her soup. “The store is still much like it ever was.
It’s funny, though, that it seems smaller to me. I suppose it’s a
lot like going back to one’s old school; everything seemed bigger
before.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Just
so,” Pratt said, “though in terms of square footage, the store <i>is</i>
somewhat smaller.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It
is?” Darla couldn’t have been more surprised. Nothing seemed to
be missing; it just seemed cozier.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“If
you’re done with your lunch,” Pratt said, standing and brushing
imaginary crumbs from his suit, “I’ll show you.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’d
like that,” Darla said, reaching for the bill.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Please,”
Pratt said, “today, lunch is on me.” He threw a bill on the
table, though Darla assumed the man needn’t have paid a cent, and
took her by the elbow.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They
descended one floor in the creaky elevator and walked down a short
hallway in the office section of the third floor. Pratt pulled a key
from his vest pocket and inserted it into a narrow, unobtrusive door.
They entered into a dim, extremely narrow hallway that stretched the
length of the building.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The
insurance company insisted,” Pratt said, walking a few steps to the
right. Darla followed, then stopped when he did. She was amazed to
come upon a window, a window that overlooked the southwest corner of
the kitchenware department. She could see Ms. Conner, one of the
clerks she worked with that morning, helping a woman choose a mixer.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“One-way
glass,” Pratt said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
had no idea,” Darla marveled. “I never even thought to look up.”
Ms. Conner had been dismissed by the customer and was mopping her
brow with her sleeve, frowning. Darla felt like a voyeur.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Loss
prevention they call it,” Pratt said. “Daddy … er, father …
fought tooth and nail against it, but it was either this or pay an
ungodly fee for insurance.” They moved farther down the hall,
passing window after window.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Who,
uh, watches?” Darla asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“We
have a man, a Mr. Dunn,” Pratt said. “You probably haven’t met
him yet. He spends most of his time in the <span style="font-family: Liberation Serif, serif;">ʼ</span>combs.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="__DdeLink__201_290726795"></a>
“The <span style="font-family: Liberation Serif, serif;">ʼ</span>combs?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Pratt
laughed. “The catacombs,” he said, indicating the long hallway.
“My father dubbed them and the name stuck.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Where
is Mr. Dunn now?” Darla asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“One
never knows!” Pratt said, leading the way back out the way they
came. “He skulks about on each floor, stalking would-be
shoplifters.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Darla
was curious. As they waited in front of the elevator door, she asked,
“And all this skulking, it’s paid off?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Pratt
looked thoughtful. “In terms of insurance premiums, in spades,”
he said. “And while our inventory losses indicate that a thief or
thieves are active, we’ve only caught a few minors here and there
whose parents have made good on the thefts.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Interesting,”
Darla said. She almost dared not say it, but over the years she’d
learned to come right out with things; it was better that way. “So,
this Mr. Dunn, do you think he’s up to the task?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Pratt
cut her a look, but he didn’t appear angry. “He came highly
recommended,” he said, “and has been with us for some years now.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
elevator clanged to a halt and Pratt drew open the door. “Thank you
for the pleasure of your company,” he said, holding her hand a tad
longer than necessary.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The
pleasure was all mine, Mr. Pratt,” Darla said, her face growing
red.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Pratt
smiled wistfully. “There was a time, Darla, that you called me
Charles. Remember?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Flustered,
Darla stammered, “Oh dear, yes, yes, I remember.” She quickly
pressed the button for the first floor wishing, for once, that the
place had one of those fast, modern elevators. She could hear Pratt
chuckling even after the door closed and she was inching away from
the third floor. <i>Oh dear,</i> Darla thought, fanning herself with
her hand, <i>I’d nearly forgotten about those early days. I surely
thought that he’d forgotten!</i></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A
nice, sustained run of customers made the afternoon go quickly. It
helped, too, that Darla had the opportunity to share duties in the
china department with Mrs. O’Malley, a wonderfully droll Irish
woman – a widow like herself – who’d only recently moved to
Alcott. Darla found herself fascinated by the woman’s stories and
though they worked, they really did, they also sought opportunities
to chatter like school girls. Darla’s feet, back and knees ached,
though, so by 4:30, she began counting the minutes to 5 o’clock.
She looked forward to a nice cup of hot tea in her favorite easy
chair, with her feet up.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
was fronting merchandise along the bottom shelves while Mrs. O’Malley
ran a dust cloth over the displays above her. Fine particles sifted
down upon Darla’s head.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Lord
love us,” Mrs. O’Malley said, freezing in place. “’tis the
she-devil herself. Best keep low, ducks,” she said, inching away
toward an end-cap.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What?
Who?” Darla found her knees unable to straighten from being in a
crouch for so long, so she did what she did at home, plop right down
on her behind and stretch her cramped legs out before her.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“We
call her The Destroyer,” Mrs. O’Malley whispered. “Comes in a
few minutes afore closing and tears through the store willy-nilly and
keeps whoever’s unlucky enough to have her long past time to fire
up the kettle at home, if you get my meaning.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Darla
was beginning to get feeling back in her legs. Mrs. O’Malley had
disappeared, but perhaps if Darla kept low, The Destroyer wouldn’t
see her. She knew the type. There was always one. They’d demand
attention and service, tear through the store unfolding this and
unarranging that, then find absolutely nothing that suited them. Mrs.
O’Malley was right, the unlucky clerk who assisted them would be
left to clean up after them and would be kept there long after the
store officially closed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Finally,
Darla managed to get to her feet; the store manager had already begun
dimming the store lights and had announced its imminent closing.
Maybe she’d lucked out.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You
there!” a woman’s voice came from behind her. “What does a
person have to do to get service in this place?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Darla
turned slowly, hoping it wasn’t her that the woman had singled out.
Unfortunately, it was. And unfortunately, Darla now realized, the
voice belonged to Irma Doltmeyer, The Destroyer.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
If
the woman recognized Darla, she didn’t let on. More likely, Darla
was just another clerk to the woman.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Finally!”
she cried. “Aren’t people interested in making sales anymore? I
need help, now, with a vase.” She pronounced it <i>vahz</i> and
stood there, hands on hips, tapping one well-shod foot.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Darla
couldn’t help it, she glanced at her watch; it was five minutes to
five. She put on her best customer service face and followed Irma,
who was rapidly tap-tap-tapping down the main aisle. She came to a
halt in front of a glass display case upon which stood a red vase
filled with flowers.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“This
one,” Irma said, nodding.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’m
afraid that’s not for sale,” Darla said. “It’s the store’s
and quite old. I’m sure we have others a lot like it ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Not
for sale?” Irma’s well-plucked eyebrows shot up. “Everything’s
for sale. How much is it?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Holding
her annoyance in check with some difficulty, Darla made a quick
assessment of the situation.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Five-thousand
dollars,” she said. She could be in deep trouble if the woman
actually bought the thing, she figured, or the day’s hero.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Irma’s
eyebrows shot up again. Darla kept her face impassive, though she
wanted to laugh out loud.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It
doesn’t go with the foyer anyway,” Irma said, waving her hand
dismissively. “Too red. Let me see your others.” Once more, she
put her hands on her hips and tapped her foot, her handbag swaying
with the movement.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
was after five. Over Irma’s shoulder Darla saw Mrs. O’Malley
gesturing to her watch, rolling her eyes, then shrugging. She had her
coat on. It was hard, but Darla kept on her game face.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Right
over here,” she said, walking toward a colorful display. “All
sizes, colors … glass, ceramic, clay ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Let
me see that one.” Irma pointed to the top shelf at a large,
translucent glass vase.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Darla
sighed inaudibly. “I’ll need a step-stool,” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Then
I suggest you get one,” Irma said nastily.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Darla
turned on her heel and went in search of a stool. She didn’t feel
good about it, but once out of the woman’s sight, she made quite a
number of rude gestures and eye rolls. She couldn’t help herself.
When she came back with the stool, Irma was gone.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
couldn’t be so lucky,” Darla muttered. She figured Irma had just
wandered off, but there’d be holy hell to pay if Darla hadn’t
retrieved the vase when she got back. She slowly climbed up and
carefully lifted the vase off the shelf.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Finally!”
Irma barked from behind, startling Darla.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
was a matter of either saving the vase or saving herself and Darla
chose the latter. She kept her footing by grabbing onto the shelving,
but the delicate vase crashed to the floor.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Now
look what you’ve done!” Irma cried, backing away from the shards
of glass. “I wanted that vase!” She actually stamped her foot,
glass crunching beneath it.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
There
wasn’t a violent bone in her body, but right then Darla wanted to
smack the woman. She looked with dismay at the mess she’d have to
clean up. She could feel her face growing hot and her blood actually
felt like it was boiling. She opened her mouth …</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
never mind!” Irma said. “You’ve made me late!”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
With
that, she crunched right through the mess on the floor and headed to
the entrance, much to Darla’s relief. Darla wasn’t sure, exactly,
what she had been going to say, but she was pretty sure it would have
gotten her fired. She sighed heavily and went to get a broom.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Too
exhausted to even brew a pot of tea when she got home long after 7
o’clock, Darla went right to bed. She was too angry to sleep,
though, so after a night of tossing and turning she made her way
groggily back to Pratt’s the next morning. She kept reminding
herself that it was only for a year. Then the house would be paid off
and her Social Security would kick in … she just had to get through
the year, Irma Doltmeyer notwithstanding. She hobbled from the bus
stop, but at the store entrance, straightened her spine and put on
her Helpful Clerk Smile. It was a good thing, too, because C.F. Pratt
III was waiting just inside the door for her.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Could
I see you upstairs please?” he said without preamble.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Of
course!” Darla said, flustered to no end. She followed him to the
elevator, wondering if she were about to get fired. Did that horrible
woman lose another job for her? Did she call Pratt last night after
leaving the store? Darla tried not to slouch during the long, quiet
ride, but it felt like gravity was trying to pull her through the
floor. They got out on the third floor, but rather than going to
Pratt’s office, he unlocked a door she’d never noticed before and
gestured her inside.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They
climbed several steps and came into a small, cramped room with one
wall made up of smoky glass that overlooked the entire third floor.
Several monitors sat on the large desk.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Please,
sit,” Pratt said, indicating the only chair. She sat and looked up
at him expectantly.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’d
like you to see something,” he said, fiddling with one of the
monitors. “Last night, I sent Mr. Dunn home early and took up his
spot. This, by the way, is his domain.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Darla
had figured as much. She eyed the monitor, palms sweating, as she
realized that she was looking at Mrs. O’Malley and herself from the
night before. Her stomach leaped when she saw herself awkwardly plop
down on her bottom right in the aisle. She dared not look at Pratt’s
face.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Pretty
soon, Mrs. O’Malley was inching away from her as Darla rose to her
feet and Irma, The Destroyer, appeared in the frame. There was no
sound and the footage was grainy, but Darla remembered every part of
the encounter. Her stomach leapt again as she recalled going to find
a step-stool. And here it was, the part that would send her packing.
Darla held her breath and shut her eyes briefly, opening them just in
time to see herself gesturing wildly, middle fingers aloft, a
veritable murmur of birds flying from her hands. She sat perfectly
still, waiting for the ax to fall. Pratt made a sound in his throat.
Was he laughing?</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then
she was back in the aisle, climbing the step-stool, alone …
reaching for the vase … Irma appearing in the frame behind her …
Darla gripping the shelf … the vase crashing down.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
will, of course, pay for the vase” she said, finding her voice and
finally looking up at Pratt.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Pratt
ignored her as he fiddled with another monitor. “This is the part I
want you to see,” he said. “It’s a different camera.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Darla
turned back to the screen. The camera was pointed down the leather
goods aisle, one aisle over from the vases. Suddenly, there was Irma,
stalking into the picture.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Is
she doing what I think she’s doing?” Darla gasped. Sure enough,
Irma was snatching up wallets, gloves, anything small she could get
her hands on and sweeping them into her handbag. It only took a
matter of seconds, and then she was out of the frame.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That’s
where she disappeared to when I went to the stool?” Darla looked up
at Pratt, eyes wide.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” he said. “And it’s not the
first time she’s pulled this little trick. It is, as they say, her
M.O.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’m
… I don’t know what I am,” Darla stammered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Amazed,
perhaps?” Pratt said. “As am I. I wanted you to see this because
– well, partly because of your history with the lady in question –
and, partly because it was your comment about Mr. Dunn that woke me
up to his role in this.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“His
role?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Pratt
nodded. “Mr. Dunn, as it turns out,” he said, “is Mrs.
Doltmeyer’s nephew. Certainly no crime there, but almost every
digital record we have features our Mrs. Doltmeyer stealing
everything but the display cases. Enough evidence to have her
arrested, I assure you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Darla’s
hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my,” she said, trying not to find
satisfaction in picturing Irma Doltmeyer in handcuffs, and failing.
“But why would he have kept evidence against his own aunt?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Heaven
knows. Blackmail? Arrogant complacency? Whatever the reason, it’s
in the sheriff’s hands now and I assure you, C.F. Pratt’s is
pressing charges and seeking restitution. Until Mr. Dunn and his aunt
are taken into custody, however, I would caution you about discussing
this with anyone in the store.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“My
lips are sealed,” Darla assured him.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Pratt
threw back his head and laughed, much to Darla’s surprise and
confusion.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Your
lips might be sealed,” he said, still laughing, “but I’ve seen
those hands of yours speaking volumes!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Darla
blushed down to her toes, but inside, she was flipping Irma Doltmeyer
the bird.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06079213798998281561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-24671111329979967072014-12-26T12:00:00.000-06:002014-12-26T12:00:02.434-06:00Our Operators are Standing By ...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5KycXgGZ32cT46Cx0-iXm7irUTnCI8TeNLFseOCpIRJo8_NzyPhjXSLAU8IjiIZOJcj3O8WNHLPFSuhUkXdSip9smi3MSDspDReIeh-vvjhGgTUGX_3SvRMBoMSE3u97VP1DZx9jMu60/s1600/512px-Cisco_7960_IP_Phone.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5KycXgGZ32cT46Cx0-iXm7irUTnCI8TeNLFseOCpIRJo8_NzyPhjXSLAU8IjiIZOJcj3O8WNHLPFSuhUkXdSip9smi3MSDspDReIeh-vvjhGgTUGX_3SvRMBoMSE3u97VP1DZx9jMu60/s1600/512px-Cisco_7960_IP_Phone.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image by SimonInns via <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Cisco_7960_IP_Phone.JPG" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>Author's Note: Here at Black Coffee Fiction, we celebrate the holiday season by posting depressing stories about Christmas to make our readers feel better about their own holiday experiences. Know that while writing this story, I was laughing the whole time.</i><br />
<br />
The telephone sat before him, lit only by the glow from his laptop’s screen. Jordy Lestrange had decided that as the only employee in the building, he could throw caution to the wind and turn on the overhead fluorescents that his fellow service techs kept off. After five minutes under full illumination, Jordy turned the lights back off, unable to bear the revealed dust bunnies, candy wrappers, and unidentifiable carpet stains. Two hours into his shift, and the phone remained silent. On any normal day, he would have fielded at least five questions from irritated customers, perhaps kicking one over to one of the engineers or a manager if the customer started shouting obscenities. But on the day after Christmas, the technical support line was dead as old Marley.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
He checked his cell phone, a blinking icon reminding him his data was all used up for the month. He could always go over and pay a fee, but what was the point of getting double-time pay at work if he just sunk it into playing games and listening to music? Using his work computer for entertainment was out too; the IT director’s idea of acceptable internet use only grudgingly allowed employees to look at spare part numbers on a selected group of online catalogs. Jordy kicked himself for not bringing a book, but really, who read anymore? He wouldn’t know what would interest him. There was a Sports Illustrated in the customer lobby, but it was the fall football preview issue, and his fantasy team had missed the playoffs already.<br />
<br />
His cell phone’s (non-data-using) alarm buzzed, and Jordy sighed. He eyed the desk phone, wishing it would ring, but of course, it didn’t. He stood and walked out of the service office, grabbing a long-barreled flashlight from the top of his manager’s file cabinet in passing. The hallway was lit only by dim emergency lighting, giving the holiday decorations on the wall a sinister vibe. Santa’s shadowed eyes followed him as he passed by. Jordy felt as much holiday spirit seeing the Christmas decorations (as a Jew) as much as he did about the Stars and Stripes on Flag Day (he was Canadian). It seemed to put most of his co-workers in magnanimous and charitable moods, though. Not enough to volunteer for phone support on Boxing Day, but the needy family the company adopted was reportedly over the moon with the new X-Box that the donations had provided. <br />
<br />
He fished a pair of earplugs from his front pocket and pushed on a heavy metal door leading to the shop’s assembly floor. The ca-chunking of reciprocating steel and clacking of pneumatic valves faded as the ear plug’s foam expanded to deaden the noise. The high ceiling lights were off save a pair of yellowed gymnasium lights at the east and west end. Jordy switched on the flashlight and made his way to the machine chewing its way through electricity and compressed air. <br />
<br />
What better time to put the latest model through a two-hundred hour dry run than when everyone was on vacation? Just have the phone support tech check every few hours to make sure it was still working, and ship it after New Year’s. Jordy walked around the machine, playing the flashlight’s beam under the frame to check for lost nuts and bolts. Nothing. No reason for him to be here whatsoever.<br />
<br />
Was the overtime worth it? Jordy was wondering if he should have stood up to his boss. Sure, he was single, not going out of town, and the lowest guy on the seniority list. He couldn’t come up with a good excuse, and hey, the overtime would buy a lot of drinks for single ladies at the bars, right? If only Jordy had known that all the single ladies had cleared out for the long weekend, leaving their bitter, wrinkled, divorced mothers behind to troll the bar scene. He would stay at home tonight and find something on TV. Maybe that show with all the people buying beach houses in the Caribbean. <br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
He was playing random catalog number poker, and had drawn a pair of kings with part number K364-9K (beam, steel, 3x6x4) against his imaginary dealer’s garbage hand of MP-J05 (motor, 5 horsepower, IP67 certified). This was fortunate, since he had anteed the company’s 401K holdbacks against the dealer’s deed to Iceland. Then the phone rang.<br />
<br />
“Rogan Josh Technology Group, this is Jordy.”<br />
<br />
“Are you technical service?” said a garbled voice.<br />
<br />
“I am.”<br />
<br />
“I need someone to come out and look at my car,” said the man.<br />
<br />
“Your car? I think you have the wrong number.”<br />
<br />
“But you’re technical service.” In the background, a car honked its horn and the man shouted back at it. <br />
<br />
“For Rogan Josh products, sir. We don’t make cars.”<br />
<br />
“Well what do you make?”<br />
<br />
Jordy leaned back in his chair. Company policy said he couldn’t hang up on a call, and recorded all conversations “for quality and training purposes,” which was a mouthful way of saying they didn’t trust service techs after Wally McCullach rang up a thousand dollars last year chatting up women in Thailand on the weekends. While it wasn’t often checked, Jordy felt today’s logs would be audited for sure. <br />
<br />
He sighed. “We make machinery for the cosmetics industry.”<br />
<br />
“Well what the hell good are you then?” Brakes squealed in the background with another round of honking. <br />
<br />
“Maybe you should call a wrecker, or the police, sir.”<br />
<br />
“That’s what I’m doing, but instead I got you idiots.”<br />
<br />
“Where are you, sir? I’ll call a wrecker for you.” Jordy reached for phone book wedged between his desk and the floor.<br />
<br />
“Mason and Third, downtown Kalamazoo.”<br />
<br />
Jordy hesitated. “Michigan?”<br />
<br />
“Hells yes, Michigan. You know of any other Kalamazoo?”<br />
<br />
“I’m just outside of Pittsburg, sir.” There was a long pause. Jordy’s mouth blabbered to fill the silence. “Maybe that’s your problem. I’ll bet our number is the same as the wrecker service you called but with a different area code.”<br />
<br />
“What area code? I just dialed and you answered. I pay a hundred dollars a month for this phone, it should know which damned area code I’m in.” Another horn blared in the background. “Look, just find me another number, son. Quick, now.”<br />
<br />
Jordy stared at the phone book under his desk. It only covered the metro Pittsburg area and was five years out of date. He told the man this, then had to jerk the phone back from his ear.<br />
<br />
“Jeeeesus Cee-rist, are you ever worthless. Just Google something already.”<br />
<br />
“Um, our IT department doesn’t let us use Google. Our IT manager doesn’t … let us.” He was about to say his IT manager’s office was rumored to be lined with tinfoil, and that he configured the company’s network under the assumption that either the NSA or North Korea would attempt a cyber-attack against the server farm, with the help of a mole within the company, most likely one of the service techs. But saying stuff like that on a bugged phone could get him fired.<br />
<br />
The man on the other end swore and (thankfully) hung up. Jordy scribbled down “wrong number” on his call log, noted the time, and went back to playing part number poker. Two hands later, he had lost the throne to Sweden and his hypothetical first born daughter, when the phone rang.<br />
<br />
“Rogan Josh Technology Group, this is Jordy.”<br />
<br />
“You didn’t wish me a merry Christmas,” the man from Kalamazoo said.<br />
<br />
Mindful of the computerized Big Brother listening in, he reined in his urge to give proctologic advice. Instead he said, “You hung up before I could do so sir.”<br />
<br />
The silence on the other line stretched on for many moments before the man from Kalamazoo spoke. “Well? I’m waiting.”<br />
<br />
Jordy stared at the phone. Was holiday pay really worth this? He looked around at the shadowed desks, the silver tinsel in the hallway reflecting the sickly yellow glow of the emergency lights, and decided that no, it was not.<br />
<br />
“Merry Christmas, sir,” Jordy said.<br />
<br />
“Go to hell.” Click.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Jordy hung up the phone, and wrote in his phone log: wrong number follow-up, and the time. It was still an hour until lunch. Jordy grabbed the flashlight and headed for the production floor. The machine had to have a screw loose somewhere; if not, he certainly did. Wadehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08229835689380630612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-19538809763969083452014-12-19T15:00:00.000-06:002014-12-20T13:41:52.672-06:00Blind Date - Part IV
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
By
Bettyann Moore</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Pretty
lousy day, huh?” Mr. Bowen said.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Understatement
of the year,” Kathie mumbled. She’d spent the last period of the
day lying on a narrow cot in the nurse’s office, though she
certainly wasn’t sick. Upset maybe. Appalled, yes. If she thought
about what had happened to that girl’s sister, her stomach churned.
Scared, definitely.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
wasn’t even going to stop in to talk to Mr. B, but he’d seen her
as she passed his open door and motioned her inside. This way, at
least, she wouldn’t have to hear the snickers and see the stares in
the corridors. She was certain she’d forever be known as “the
girl who threw up in study hall” … until someone did something
worse.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“High
school’s a tough gig,” Bowen said, getting up to shut the door.
Throngs of noisy kids turned loose for the day poured through the
hallways. “That’s better,” he said, going back to his desk.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
sat hunched in a desk chair, the same one she sat in during Bowen’s
English class. The teacher straightened a few piles of folders on his
desk, putting some in a drawer and others into a big, black satchel.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“High
school’s not so bad,” Kathie said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It
surprises me to hear you say that,” Bowen said, turning around to
erase the chalkboard. “I mean,” he went on, “your attendance
record from your last school would indicate otherwise.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
blushed. Apparently he’d seen her file. No surprise there, but why
bring it up now?</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It
wasn’t always my fault,” she said, defending herself, and hating
that she had to. She reached down and picked up her backpack from the
floor. The hallways had cleared. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good
idea after all. Kathie didn’t like asking for advice in the first
place. Getting attitude didn’t help.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bowen
turned away from the board, rapidly slapping his hands together.
Motes of chalk flew from them.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You
leaving?” he asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
thought I might go home after all,” Kathie said, starting to get
up.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bowen
crossed the room and plunked himself down on the top of the desk in
front of her, his feet planted on the chair. Kathie sat back down,
crossing her arms over her chest. He sat like men do, his knees wide
apart. Kathie blushed again and tried not to look.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Seems
like you’re always leaving, Kathie, in one way or another,” Bowen
said, not unkindly.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
squirmed in her seat and stared up at him. “When you gotta go, you
gotta go,” she joked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
threw back his head and laughed, then leaned forward, his elbows on
his thighs, hands dangling between his legs. “Going, leaving …
just other ways to say running away, don’t you think?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now
Kathie was angry. “What do you know about it?” she snarled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
know a few things,” Bowen said, unperturbed. “I know you’re
smart – the smartest kid I’ve ever had in this classroom in 10
years of teaching. I know you’re caring. Didn’t I read that you
started a food bank for the elderly in your old school? I know you’re
determined, otherwise how could you have hitchhiked from one coast to
the other?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
looked everywhere but at him. Her anger was subsiding, but now she
was embarrassed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
also know that the first time you ran away, you were eight. And the
only reason why you came back was because the older girl you’d
convinced to go with you got scared.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Big
cry baby,” Kathie huffed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bowen
smiled. “I know you ran away at least three more times after that,”
he went on. “I know you missed 45 days of school during your
sophomore year and were heading to beat that record in the first five
months of your junior year, until you came here, that is. I know
there were drugs, sex ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
and rock ‘n’ roll, too,” Kathie cut in, her voice rising.
“Look, Mr. Bowen,” she said. “I thought I could trust you. I
thought you could help me figure out what to do about this Peter
Johnson creep, not lecture me like everyone else in my life. I gotta
go.” She snatched up her backpack again and stood up.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bowen
stopped her with a hand on her arm.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
was getting to that,” he said quietly. “I wanted to help you see
that old patterns are hard to break. That running only leads to more
running.” He kept his hand on her arm until she seemed calmer.
Kathie put her head back and looked up at the ceiling, but she didn’t
move away.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So,
what are you telling me?” she asked. “That I should, what, report
Johnson to the police? Or hop into his big, brown ugly car and ask
him to go steady? Maybe you think I should start following him? I
don’t get it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
no you don’t,” Bowen said. “You’re not going to get me to
decide for you.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
rolled her eyes skyward again. “I didn’t ask you to,” she said,
then slowly smiled, “but it would be nice if you did.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
it wouldn’t really,” Bowen said, “because I don’t know what
you’re afraid of. Only you do.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What
do you mean by that?” Kathie cried.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bowen
slid off the desk and started pacing like he did in class sometimes.
Kathie sighed and sat back down again.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
have a theory,” Bowen said. “We can’t really make sound
decisions if fear is involved. Face the fear, call it out and deal
with it first, then make your decision.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’m
really not afraid of much,” Kathie interrupted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Really?”
Bowen said, with mock surprise on his face. “Seems to me that
someone who runs away all the time is afraid of something, or a lot
of somethings.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
felt her ire rise again, but she held it in check. This was the first
time anyone ever called her afraid; they usually said just the
opposite. “I still don’t get what this has to do with Peter
Johnson,” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well
… there are a number of ways you can handle the situation, as you
know, maybe some you’ve never thought of.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
okay.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So
which one strikes the most fear in you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Uh
…”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You
don’t have to answer that now, and certainly not to me,” Bowen
said, holding up his hand. “Answer it for yourself. Name the fear.
Confront it. Deal with it.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“This
is way over my head,” Kathie said, frowning. <br /><br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That
I doubt,” Bowen said. He looked down at his watch. “Wow, time
sure flies,” he said. “Time to get out of this place. It’s
Friday!” He picked up his satchel and headed for the door, Kathie
following and still frowning.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
school was dark and abandoned, though Kathie could hear the squeaking
wheels of the janitor’s mop bucket somewhere down the long, dim
corridor. She shivered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh
boy, would you look at that?” Bowen said as they reached the exit.
Outside, giant snowflakes fell. By the looks of it they’d been
falling for quite awhile.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“A
freshly fallen silent shroud of snow,” Kathie quoted, pulling her
gloves out of her pockets.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bowen
smiled. “Need a ride?” he asked, standing in a circle of light
from the street lamp.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
I don’t think so,” Kathie said. “There’s no wind and it’s
really pretty. I don’t have far to go.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Okay,
suit yourself!” Bowen gave a little wave and shuffled off to the
teacher parking lot behind the school.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A
block later, Kathie wished she’d taken him up on the offer. Her
Beatle boots were leaking and it was the one time she wished she had
a hat. The snow was deep and getting deeper. She looked behind her;
it was coming down so hard that her footprints disappeared almost
immediately. Her hair was so wet, it actually dripped icicles. The
scrunch of snow under her feet was the only sound. She hitched up her
backpack and kept her head down, her mind racing.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“He’s
full of crap,” Kathie said aloud, just to hear some noise. “I’m
not afraid of anything. I’m not,” she said just as she hit a
patch of snow-covered ice and landed hard on her back. She felt the
impact in her tailbone, but was grateful for cushioning of the
backpack. With some difficulty, she finally got to her feet, the rest
of her as wet and cold as her head. When the car whispered up to the
curb, she didn’t hesitate; she pulled open the door and slipped
inside.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’m
not afraid of jack,” Kathie said as if she was still talking to
herself. She hugged herself to keep from shivering, her teeth
chattering. “If you’re afraid, you don’t stick your thumb out
in the middle of nowhere,” she went on, her voice rising. “You
don’t tell your step-father to take a flying fuck at the moon when
he backhands you.” She bent down to take a cigarette out of her
backpack at her feet; she needed one, badly. “Can you turn on the
dome light?” she asked. “Or is there a flashlight somewhere?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
flashlight, a heavy long-handled metal one, came crashing down on the
back of Kathie’s head, sending her flying into the dash, bloodying
her nose and knocking her unconscious. The car continued long past
her sister’s house where the porch light had been left on for her
and well into the country. The plows weren’t out yet and only a few
hardy travelers braved the weather, their headlights dim in the
falling snow.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
came to painfully and slowly. The car had stopped. The passenger door
jerked open and her limp body fell halfway out of the car. She kept
her eyes closed; if he thought she was awake he might hit her again.
She was grabbed under her arms and pulled the rest of the way out of
the car, then dragged through the snow. She could feel it catching in
her boots and it felt like cold whispers on her face. He grunted and
struggled with the dead weight, stopping now and then to rest,
wheezing and cursing.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
If
she’d never felt fear before, Kathie was feeling it now. Its icy
fingers ran the length of her body; she was cold inside and out. She
wanted to kick and scream, to fight back, to run, but a voice kept
telling her to play opossum, to wait for a chance. It seemed like
he’d dragged her for miles; there had been light coming through her
eyelids before, now there was none. She heard his heel hit something
wooden and she was bumpily dragged up three steps. The snow quit
falling on her face. A porch? A cabin?
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
was unceremoniously dumped, the back of her bruised head thumping
against wood. He was looking at her, she could tell. She’d never
felt so naked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Little
slut. Little cocktease. You’re all the same, wearing your
mini-skirts, going braless.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
heard a zipper’s long, slow descent, the whisper of nylon against
nylon. Then the scrape of a match and a dull glow, red behind her
eyelids. Had she missed her chance? Kathie’s eyes flew open and she
tried to scramble to her feet. In an instant, there was a gleaming
knife at her throat and he was straddling her legs, his full weight
crushing her into the hard surface.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You’re
not going anywhere. This is where things get interesting.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’ll
...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You’ll
do what? Scream? We’re miles from anywhere. Besides, my good friend
here would cut that scream right out of your throat.” The knife
flashed in the light of a small lantern.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie’s
eyes watered. Her legs were going numb. What difference does that
make? She thought, almost laughing out loud. She was going to die.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
quit your sniveling. You think a few tears will melt my heart and
make me change my mind? Quite the opposite, girlie. I thought you
were the brave world traveler, afraid of nothing.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
spit in his face. He just blinked coldly at her, the saliva running
down his cheek. Then he reared up and backhanded her cheek, slicing
it open with a ring on his finger.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Stupid
bitch. Just be glad I only hit you. Enough of this shit.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
ground his weight more firmly on her legs then grabbing her shirt, he
began slicing off the buttons, one by one. Kathie could feel the cold
steel against her flesh; she didn’t dare move.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You
killed that other girl.” Kathie’s voice came flat, mechanical.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“She
got what she deserved.” He came to the top button and sliced
upward, nicking her chin. She felt the blood drip down her neck and
felt him grow hard against her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You
like the blood,” she said. “Is that it?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It’s
such a beautiful fluid. Hot, red and slick.” He rubbed a finger
against the cut, then licked the blood off. Kathie’s stomach
churned. She turned her head to the side and retched. Nothing came
out but bile.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Ever
hear of Death By a Thousand Cuts?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
closed her eyes as he ran the blade lightly up her bare stomach and
up under the elastic of her bra, then sliced upwards, cutting it in
half.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
next thing she knew, he was crushing her with his dead weight, his
head smacking the floor next to her own. She looked up.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh
my God,” she cried, “oh my God, it’s you.” She pushed with
all her might against her attacker’s slack body, rolled over and
scrambled away.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Are
you okay? I think he’ll be out for a while.” Peter Johnson,
gripping a flashlight, kicked at Dan Bowen’s inert body. Kathie had
never been so glad to see someone in her life.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“How
did you find us?” she asked, shuddering uncontrollably. She pulled
her coat together and sat on the cold, wet floor of the park gazebo
rocking and wailing.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I,
uh, saw you get into his car and I followed you,” Peter said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
smiled wanly.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
woulda got here quicker, but I had to stay pretty far behind. Thought
I lost him one time. Here.” He shrugged off his down parka and
placed it around her shoulders. “I better go call the police.
There’s a phone out by the main entrance.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No!
Don’t leave me with him!” Kathie cried. She tried to get to her
feet, but her legs shook and collapsed beneath her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Peter
had already pulled off his belt and was tying Bowen’s hands behind
his back. “I’ll need the scarf, too,” he said pointing to her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
His
scarf was still around the coat he gave her. Kathie tugged at it with
cold fingers and handed it up to him. He kicked Bowen’s feet
together and knelt down to tie his ankles, then looped the scarf
around his tied hands for good measure.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“There,
he’s hogtied and he’s not going anywhere,” he said. “I
wouldn’t touch the knife,” he added, nodding his head at the
blade near Bowen’s hand. “Fingerprints. There’s a Swiss Army
knife in the right pocket of my coat if you need it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Why
would I … no, let me come with you!” Once again, Kathie tried to
stand, but failed. <br /><br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It’s
not far,” Peter said, “They just put in that 9-1-1 number here.
Besides, you can’t walk real good right now.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Please
hurry,” Kathie said, pulling his large coat down over her knees,
trying to cover herself as much as possible. Before she could even
finish the sentence, Peter Johnson was barreling away through drifts
of snow.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
moved as far away from Bowen as she could. Her whole body trembled
with fear and the cold, though her head felt hot and feverish. She
didn’t take her eyes off of him. It seemed like Peter was gone for
hours when Bowen started moaning. Kathie fumbled in the big pocket
and pulled out the knife, then fumbled to open it as Bowen came to.
His eyes snapped open when he realized he was tied. He looked around,
incredulous.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Nice
trick,” he snarled at her. “How’d you manage that?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Shut
up,” Kathie snarled back, pointing the knife at him.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Cute
toy,” Bowen said, coughing up a laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
He struggled against the bindings. Kathie got to her knees and held
it straight out, as if it were a gun.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“C’mon,
Kathie,” Bowen crooned. “Untie me, would you? I was just playing
with you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
didn’t know she had it in her, but Kathie barked out a laugh.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she scoffed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Come
on, I’m serious here.” Bowen’s eyes shifted back and forth, he
started wriggling closer to her. “Okay, I’m a sick, sick man,”
he said, making his voice sound pitiful. “But they’ll put me in
jail and throw away the key and I’ll never get the help I need,
don’t you see? I need treatment, I need understanding and
compassion. You’re compassionate, aren’t you, Kathie?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
was whimpering. Kathie lowered her arms a bit. She looked around.
When would Peter get back?</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Look,
Kathie,” Bowen said, “I know you’ll do what’s right, what’s
good. I trust you.” He struggled, but managed to roll right over so
that now he faced away from her. His bound arms and legs were just
inches from her. “See?” he said. “I trust you. Just cut them
off and I’ll be on my way. I’ll go away and I’ll get the help I
need, check into a hospital.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When
Kathie didn’t move, he tried again.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Look,
there are just two choices here, not like with that silly Peter
Johnson thing: Either cut them off and let me get help, or don’t.
Just two choices. Even you could pick one.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>He
had to go and say that,</i> Kathie thought. Even though being near
him made her skin crawl, she moved closer until her mouth was inches
from his ear.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
Mr. B,” she hissed, “that’s where you’re wrong. That,” she
said, holding the knife against his jugular, “is a classic example
of the fallacy of the limited possibility. There’s definitely at
least one more choice here.” She pressed the cold steel harder
against his neck as he lay stiff and unmoving.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
had never prayed in her life, but now she prayed that Peter and the
cops would get there in time.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06079213798998281561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-45137884549173070672014-12-12T17:04:00.000-06:002014-12-20T13:41:52.674-06:00Blind Date - Part IIIBy Bettyann Moore<br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
was pretty sure Marie had put him up to it, but Jim offered her a
ride to school the next day, which she gladly accepted. It pissed her
off, though, that she was changing her routine all because of Peter
Johnson. She was in a crappy mood when she got to school and,
naturally, had a hard time opening her locker.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Piece
of shit,” she cursed, kicking at the bottom, which often helped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Miss
Hudson, I’ll ignore that for now,” Mr. Bowen, her first hour
teacher said. He was standing right behind her with a pink hall pass
in his hand.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Sorry,
Mr. Bowen,” Kathie murmured. “It’s been a tough week.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
smiled and handed the pass to her. “Dr. Schneider wants to see you
first thing in her office,” he said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
groaned. Now what? More lectures? More insinuations? “Thanks, Mr.
Bowen,” she said, “you know, for everything.” She nodded at the
locker which chose just then to pop open.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You’re
welcome,” Bowen said, already moving off to class. “Rest assured,
though, that you’ll be writing ‘I will not curse at my locker’
100 times on the blackboard this week.” He chuckled and turned back
to wink at her.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
grabbed books out of her locker and actually chuckled herself. It
never mattered, it seemed, how awful things got or how horrible some
people were, there was always someone or something that balanced it
out. Then she frowned. Time to see Dr. Schneider.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Enter!”
Schneider called out after Kathie rapped tentatively on her door.
Kathie rolled her eyes, then entered.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Schneider
didn’t look up from the papers on her desk. Kathie sat on the
hard-backed chair, the only other chair in the office, and waited.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
thought you might want to see this,” Schneider finally said,
holding out a stapled pile of papers.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
looked at the top sheet, not getting what it was at first. She
flipped through a couple more before she got it. They were teacher
evaluations sent to the superintendent of schools regarding their #1
problem child, Kathie Hudson.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Excellent
student,” Mr. Bowen had written.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Does
superior work,” her math teacher said. That surprised Kathie.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
had to laugh, though, at her Consumer Ed teacher’s comment under
“Does the student contribute to the class?” He had written:
“Very much. Sometimes to much.” She looked up at Schneider.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yes,”
she said, “Mr. Glass doesn’t have a great grip on grammar.” She
allowed herself a small smile.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
got to the last sheet, the one from the school principal. “Very
gratifying,” he’d written. That was all. Kathie knew that the
superintendent had fought the old bastard to get her into school.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’m
probably breaking some rules showing you these,” Schneider said.
“But sometimes it’s important to do that.” She finally looked
Kathie in the eye. “It’s very important, though, to admit to
being wrong.” She looked down again and shuffled some papers. “I
was wrong yesterday, Kathie, to question your veracity. And I use the
word ‘veracity’ knowing full-well that you know what it means. I
wanted to offer you my apologies and also my help.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
couldn’t help herself; she teared up. She flipped through the
evaluations once more, trying to get back her cool.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
was still pissed. Even at 17 you hoped that the adults around you had
their shit together more than you did. Time and time again she’d
been disappointed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
was hard, but she finally said, “Thank you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
To
her credit, Schneider waved the thanks away. “No, thank you,” she
said, “for offering me the opportunity to open my eyes … I
haven’t always taken it. This job...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
heard the excuse in those last words, but forged on. “What kind of
help are you talking about?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“There
are a number of things we could do,” Schneider said. “The first
thing is notifying the police.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah.”
Kathie told the psychologist what Marie had said the night before.
“She wants to call the police tonight,” Kathie told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
that’s a start,” Schneider said, “and it gets things ‘on the
record.’ Unfortunately, it might not stop there.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What
do you mean?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
doctor sighed. “Channels,” she said. “It’s kind of a process
that victims are forced through. You call the authorities. An officer
comes out and takes a statement. He – and it’s almost always a he
– asks questions that may or may not be relevant and many are
uncomfortable.” She blushed, likely remembering her own words. “In
this case, I’m afraid he – without checking with anyone else –
will recommend changing the phone number.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Ugh,”
Kathie said. “And change my walking route? Get rides every day?
Move, maybe?” She was getting worked up all over again.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
doctor held up her hand. “The next thing – if necessary – is a
restraining order.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Wow,
that sounds serious,” Kathie said.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It
is,” Schneider admitted. “And it’s complicated. You’ll have
to petition the court for a temporary restraining order, which the
sheriff will serve to this Mr. Johnson. You’ll have to attend a
hearing two weeks later to ask for an injunction, which can last up
to four years. Of course, the court can deny the request...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Why
do they make it so hard?” Kathie moaned and held her stomach. “I
just want him to stop following me around and calling!”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
know, Kathie, and I’m sorry it’s like this. Why don’t we see
how it goes tonight when your sister calls the sheriff and go from
there?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
guess I don’t have much choice.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Not
really, but I want to warn you that even this part won’t be easy,”
Schneider said. “Do yourself a favor and before tonight, write down
everything you can think of – dates, times, your feelings at the
time, witnesses – have your sister do the same. You’ve mentioned
small nephews in the house; I’m sure that concerns your sister a
great deal.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
balked. “I don’t know,” she said, “I mean it’s not like
he’s a monster or anything...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Schneider
held up her hand again. “Kathie,” she said kindly, “you have
absolutely no idea what or who he is. All anyone can go by are his
actions up to this point, right?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
I guess you’re right.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
doctor stood up and came around to the other side of her desk. Kathie
stood up, too, and was surprised when the woman gave her a warm,
reassuring hug.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You’ll
do fine,” Schneider said. “Will you be okay going to classes
today, or do you want me to get you excused?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
thought about it for a moment, then declined the excuse. “All I’d
do is sit and worry all day at home. At least I’ll be distracted
here.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
distraction didn’t outweigh the worry, however, nor the doubt. What
if it was all just a big misunderstanding? Police, courts,
restraining orders … what if his life was ruined? Then her thoughts
would swing the other way. What was he doing, after all, but ruining
her life? Making her look over her shoulder, cringe at the sound of
the phone. She used to like taking little walks in the neighborhood
in the evenings, now she didn’t feel safe doing that. Even her
sister was getting paranoid. The last thing Kathie wanted was to be a
burden to Marie and her family, yet just a few weeks into her stay,
everything was in an uproar.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Her
mother used to call her “Trouble, with a capital T”, but it
wasn’t like Kathie went looking for trouble, it just always seemed
to find her. What if Marie and Jim decided that they didn’t want
the extra worries and hassles, especially if there was some big court
thing to be dragged through? Jim didn’t say much, but Kathie knew
he’d been against bringing her into their home in the first place.
Where could she go from here?
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
put her head down on her desk. She was supposed to be taking notes,
but she was just doodling in her notebook. She’d missed most of Mr.
Bowen’s class anyway and although he kept glancing at her, he
didn’t seem to be upset. Bowen was cool. He never wore a suit or
tie and his hair was pretty long, for a teacher. He reminded her of
Mr. Fricke at her old school who used to get high with her and her
friends under the bleachers during football games. He really listened
to them when they bitched about parents, school, whatever. Kathie
doodled a lit joint and frowned. Fricke had been busted and
disappeared. She’d always wondered who’d narked on him.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Ms.
Hudson?” Kathie started. Bowen was leaning over her, one hand on
her desk.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Sorry,
Mr. Bowen,” Kathie said, sitting up and brushing her shoulder
against his chest while trying to black out the doodle. “Kind of
out of it,” she confessed.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Need
to talk? After school maybe?” he asked. Kathie could see the other
kids’ attention turning their way. Did she need to talk? Yes, she
sure did, but she and Marie would be a bit busy after school.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
um, thanks,” she said just as the bell rang. Kathie took her time
putting her books into her backpack while the other kids fled the
room.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
know you’re going through some stuff,” Bowen said.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
looked up at him in surprise.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You
know how people talk,” Bowen said, scooting his butt onto the desk
across from hers. “Schools are like large families; there are no
secrets.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
stood and shouldered her backpack. “Yeah, well, families ain’t
all they’re cracked up to be,” she said and immediately wondered
why she’d said it. “Talking would be nice, but I need to be home
right after school,” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
I’m here if you need me,” Bowen said, sliding off the desk. He
went to the front of the room and started erasing the board. The
chalk dust looked like little pixies in the morning sun.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Nice
to know,” Kathie said, heading out the door to Consumer Ed and Mr.
Glass who didn’t know ‘to’ from ‘too’. She paused in the
doorway. “I appreciate it,” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As
it was, the school secretary found Kathie in her fourth hour class.
“There’s a phone call for you,” she said, looking like she’d
just run a marathon in bad shoes. “Your sister.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A
bit surprised that the woman hadn’t just announced it on the loud
speaker as she usually did, Kathie followed her back to the office,
hoping there wasn’t a crisis … and that she wasn’t at the
center of it.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Marie?
Is everything okay?” Kathie said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yes
and no,” her sister answered. “Frankie came down with the flu. I
had to go pick him up at school and he puked all over the back seat.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
well, I hope he’ll be okay,” Kathie said, wondering why the news
had prompted a call.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Sure,”
Marie said, “he’ll be fine in day or two, though my upholstery
might not. I just wanted to let you know that we won’t be able to
do what we were going to do tonight, though I do have some other news
too.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
was trying to follow what her sister was saying. The school secretary
wasn’t hiding that she was all ears. “What news?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
called the phone company,” Marie said. “All those silent calls?
Definitely came from one number, one Peter Johnson, Sr. … I assume
that’s your Peter Johnson’s father and junior was using the
family phone. Unless you have something to tell me about Johnson
Senior.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
couldn’t help herself. “<i>My</i> Peter Johnson? Mine? You’re
the one who set up the blind date that started all this crap!” The
secretary scooted her office chair closer to the phone.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
just stop, Kathie,” Marie said. “We’ll get to the bottom of it
all. I just wanted to let you know that you didn’t need to be home
right away. Oh, crap, Frankie’s retching again. I gotta go. See you
later.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
sighed and hung up the phone.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Everything
okay at home?” the secretary came right out and asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Just
dandy,” Kathie said with a sweet smile. She started to leave, then
stopped and plunked her backpack down on one of the plastic chairs
usually occupied by nervous kids waiting to see the principal. She
found a notebook and tore out a sheet of paper and quickly wrote a
note to Mr. Bowen, telling him that she would be able to stop in to
see him after school. She eyed the curious secretary and, seeing a
stapler on the desk, stapled the note several times before putting it
into Bowen’s cubby hole.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Bye
now,” Kathie said with a little wave. There were only a few more
minutes left of fourth hour so she headed to her fifth hour class,
Spanish, instead, wishing she’d taken Schneider up on the offer to
go home; it’d been a wasted day so far. Sixth hour study hall and
her friends there was the only thing to look forward to. And maybe,
afterward, Mr. Bowen could help her decide what to do.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Seriously,
Kath?” Lori said after Kathie had told them what Dr. Schneider had
said about helping her. “I didn’t want to say anything before,
but it always seemed like that woman was really anti-kid. And she
works in a school!” As usual, the small group sat in the back of
the big study hall, their desks pushed close together.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
it sure seemed that way at first,” Kathie admitted, “but I think
she means it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
oops,” Lori said when a girl sitting in front of them turned to
look at them. “Sorry, Denise,” Lori said to the girl. Kathie
frowned, confused. Mark poked her in the back and leaned close to her
ear.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Denise
doesn’t much like Dr. Schneider,” he whispered. “I’ll tell
you about it later.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You
do that, Mark,” Denise snarled, obviously overhearing him. The girl
stood abruptly, snatched her books off her desk and stalked off to a
desk in the front of the room.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What
was that all about?” Kathie said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That’s
Denise Sterling,” Lori said. “Linda Sterling’s sister?” she
went on when Kathie still looked at her blankly.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That
was before her time,” Brad reminded Lori. “She probably doesn’t
know.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Know
what?” Kathie said a little too loudly. “What’s going on?”
She looked at all three of her friends, waiting for an explanation.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Linda
was a student here a few years back,” Mark said. “We were all
still in junior high.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Okay,
so?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So
I guess she went to see Schneider about someone harassing her,”
Brad added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Denise
says the doctor told her she’d get to the bottom of it,” Lori
said, “but according to Denise, Linda was accused of making things
up just to get attention … that she was, uh, a slut and had it
coming.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This
was a little too close to home for Kathie. Is that what people
thought about her?</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So,
who was harassing her?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No
one knows,” Mark said, “but Denise thinks the doctor knows.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
think she’s full of it,” Brad chimed in. “After what happened
afterward, no way would Schneider keep that to herself if she knew.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What?
What happened afterward?” Kathie said.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“She
disappeared,” Lori said, suddenly taking an interest in her math
book.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A
chill went up Kathie’s spine. “What, she ran away?” she asked
hopefully. None of the kids looked at her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No-o-o-o,”
Mark said, hesitating. “They found her out at Red Creek Park.” He
stopped and looked at Lori and Brad. “Hey, she can look it up
herself,” he said. “Hearing it from us might be better.” The
two friends shrugged and Mark went on. “She was all cut up and, uh,
had been raped. The coroner said the rape happened <i>after</i> she
was dead.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie’s
hand flew up to her mouth; she thought she was going to be sick. “Oh
my God, oh my God,” she said over and over again. She put her head
down on her knees and took a few deep breaths. “Did they find him?”
she asked, barely above a whisper. “The guy who did it? Did they
find him?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,”
Lori said, “they never did. For a few months, I remember, the whole
town went nuts. Parents walked their kids to school every day. No one
got to play outside at night. It was pretty scary.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Then,
you know,” Brad said, “it all just died down and things went back
to normal.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Normal
for all of us maybe,” Lori said, “but not for Denise or her
family.” Everyone looked over at Denise who sat hunched in her
seat.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
That’s
when Kathie threw up all over the study hall floor and Mark’s new
moccasins.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06079213798998281561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-14225016068172361912014-12-06T13:01:00.000-06:002014-12-20T13:41:52.669-06:00Blind Date - Part IIBy Bettyann Moore<br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie’s
week started out well. She’d aced the English exam she’d taken on
Friday, a good thing for someone on academic probation. The best
part, though, was being invited to go down to The Tap, the local
after-school hangout, by a group of kids from her sixth period study
hall. She could only stay long enough to eat some fries and drink a
shake because she’d promised Marie she’d watch the kids while she
did some Christmas shopping, but it was long enough to tell that she
liked them and that they liked her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
phone was ringing when Kathie sailed into the house, still chuckling
to herself over a story one of the boys had told about the varsity
football coach.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Is
that you, Kathie?” Marie’s voice came up the basement stairs.
“Will you get that? I’m wrestling with this stupid washer.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Got
it!” Kathie shouted down the stairs. “Hunter residence,” she
said into the phone.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Silence.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hello?”
Kathie thought she could hear someone breathing, but couldn’t be
sure. “Anyone there?” she said loudly. Kathie shrugged and hung
up; probably a wrong number.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Who
was that?” Marie said, coming up the stairs carrying a load of
clean clothes.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Don’t
know. No one was there.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
okay.” Marie set the basket down on the couch and started folding.
“Well?” she said. “What do you think?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What
do I think about what?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Sometimes
you’re so dense,” Marie said. “You didn’t notice what was on
the dining room table?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
so, Jim got you some flowers. Very nice. It’s not your birthday.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Marie
groaned. She dropped what she was folding, grabbed her sister’s
hand and marched her over to the table. “What do you see?” she
asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Okay,
I’ll play. I see three red roses in one of those all-purpose
florist vases with a pink ribbon wrapped around it. Oh, and a card.
Geez, Marie, what’s up with you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Look
closer, girl. Whose name is on the card?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
looked. “Crap,” she said. “Must be something his mother made
him do to thank me for the ‘nice time’.” She unpinned the card
from the ribbon and opened it up. “What the hell?” she said,
“What has that boy been smoking?” She dropped the card on the
table in disgust. Marie picked it up.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Wow,
that must have been some date,” she said. “I thought you said you
barely talked. ‘All my love, Peter Johnson,’” she read. “I
love how he put his last name, you know, in case you have other
Peters in your stable!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Shut
up,” Kathie said. “The boy is obviously disturbed. Crap, I’ll
bet that was him on the phone before.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Don’t
be silly. He would have said something.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
shivered. “I don’t know, Marie. This really creeps me out.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
pooh,” Marie said, going back to folding the clothes. “He’s
just shy and sweet and obviously infatuated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Or
nuts.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
phone rang, startling them both. Marie went to answer it.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
let me,” Kathie said, getting to it first. “If it’s him, this
needs to be nipped in the bud now.” She snatched up the receiver.
“Hunter residence.” It was practically a snarl.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Peter
Johnson, is that you?” Kathie gave her sister an I-told-you-so
look.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Peter,
if you have something to say, please say it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Fine,
if you won’t say anything, I will.” Kathie took a deep breath;
she didn’t want to seem unkind. “First off, thank you for the
flowers, but they were uncalled for. Especially the note. I had a
nice time the other day, but that’s it.” How should she put this?
“There is no ‘love’ here, okay? We had a blind date, the date
is over and that is that.” She took another deep breath, hoping
he’d break in. Hoping, actually, that it was him at the other end
of the line.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Okay,
fine,” Kathie finally said into the silence. “Have a nice life.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
hung up, exhausted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That
went well,” Marie said, trying to get her sister to smile.
“Seriously, you laid it on the line in a nice way and what happens
after this is all on his shoulders.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’m
still trying to figure out why I was nice at all,” Kathie said. She
picked up the vase of flowers, walked over to the trash can and threw
the whole thing in. “There, that feels better,” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oka-a-a-y,”
Marie said. “I have to run. The kids are at the Pattons’. I told
them to be home by 5; dinner’s in the oven and Jim’s bowling. I
won’t be too late.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Go,
go,” Kathie said, “we’ll be fine.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And
they were fine until she’d sent the boys up for their baths and
Kathie went around the house closing the curtains and pulling down
the shades.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No
way,” she said, ducking down below the living room window. She was
pretty sure she’d seen the tail end of a big brown car going around
the corner. She watched and waited until the kids clamored down the
stairs, but only saw old Mr. Parker walking his dog as they passed
under a streetlamp. She must have been imagining things.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
knew better the next day when she walked outside and saw Peter
sitting in his car at the curb. She did an about-face and went back
inside.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Forget
something?” Marie said.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Come
here.” Kathie dragged Marie away from the stove and brought her to
the living room window. “What do you see?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Is
that … what the heck is he doing out there?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
assume waiting for me. This is insane. I think we should call the
cops.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The
cops?” Marie looked nervously at the kids who were finishing
breakfast. “That seems a bit … extreme, don’t you think? He’s
not breaking the law, exactly.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
glared at her sister.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Maybe
if you just talk to him?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
did that already, remember?</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
maybe if Jim talked to him …?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
pictured five-foot-nine, 150-pound Jim menacing six-foot-four,
250-pound Peter Johnson.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Apparently
Marie had as well. “No, I don’t suppose that would work,” she
said. “But the cops, Kathie? It’s a small town and the neighbors
...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
groaned. She was going to be late for school and if there was one
thing she couldn’t do it was miss school; the school superintendent
had made that very clear.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Fine,”
she said, peeking out the blinds. “Thanks for all the support. “</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
Kathie, come on ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’ll
just ignore him,” Kathie said. She pulled her backpack on and
yanked open the door. She didn’t look at Peter or his car. She
thought she heard a car driving slowly behind her, but she kept her
head down and she didn’t stop until she was safely inside the
school, which was only a few blocks away.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
day dragged. Kathie couldn’t focus and got yelled at twice for not
paying attention. All she could think about was the end of the day
and whether there would be a car waiting for her.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That’s
crazy, Kathie,” Brad, one of the boys in the study hall group said.
Kathie had her head down on her desk, crumpling and uncrumpling a
tissue in her hand. <i>Just what I need</i>, she thought, <i>someone
to tell me I’m crazy.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
don’t mean you’re crazy,” Brad continued. “I mean that guy
has some serious shit wrong with his head. I say call the cops.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Me
too,” Lori, one of the girls chimed in. She eyed the study hall
monitor who pretty much let them get away with anything anyway, and
got up to kneel by Kathie’s desk. She rubbed her back. “My old
lady?” she said. “She was going out with a real loser and he kept
coming around even though she told him to fuck off, you know? Anyway,
she had to get this restraining order to keep him away.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
looked up. “Did it work?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well
… not right away. The guy was really dense. I was, like, 10, and it
wasn’t until the jerk started giving me shit that the cops finally
put him away. But we had to move and everything.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Shit.”
Kathie put her head back down on the desk.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Guys
like that are cowards,” Mark, the one Kathie thought was super
cute, said. “He just needs the shit kicked out of him once.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“And
you’re going to do it?” Brad said. He looked at the whole group.
“I mean, we’re all pacifists. It’s not like any of us are
shitkickers.” Everyone nodded.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,”
Mark said, “but I have redneck brothers.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Me
too,” Lori said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Maybe
you should talk to Dr. Schneider,” Brad said, referring to the
school psychologist. “Maybe she knows how to handle it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’m
not real fond of shrinks,” Kathie said, “but I’ve never talked
to a female one.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It
couldn’t hurt,” Brad said. “I think she has office hours now,
why don’t you go see?
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“And
Kathie,” Mark said, “don’t worry about after school; all of us
will meet you at the door.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
felt a rush of gratitude toward these kids she’d only just met. Why
couldn’t her sister be as understanding? She pulled her backpack
off the back of the desk chair and went to see the monitor about a
hall pass.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Do
you feel threatened?” Dr. Schneider asked. The woman had pulled out
a large file and was looking it over after Kathie had told her story.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
yeah, I do,” Kathie said, wondering why she would ask such a
question.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
see,” Schneider said, leafing through the file. She closed it
abruptly and leaned on her elbows, her hands cupped under her chin.
“Is there anything else?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
was confused. Was she being dismissed? “Anything else?” she
asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
woman leaned back in her big leather chair. “Yes,” she said. “Is
there something you’re leaving out? Anything you might have done or
said that would have led the young man on?” She looked smug,
certain. Kathie had seen that look before.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
blinked her eyes several times. She tilted her head and looked at the
doctor’s stained acoustical tiled ceiling. She got up (causing
Schneider to startle) and walked over to the woman’s framed
credentials.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Is
this real?” Kathie asked, giving Schneider a wide-eyed stare. “I
mean, it wasn’t mail-ordered from Mexico or anything, was it?”
Kathie knew she was going to be in big trouble, but just really
didn’t give a damn at that point.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
don’t see ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
it’s like this,” Kathie said. “I came to you for help. I, being
the victim here. You, being the trained professional, should – one
would think – have the <i>pro</i>fessionalism to offer empathy,
encouragement and perhaps even some solutions – not blame. But,
hey, I’m just a kid, what do I know?” She gave Schneider her most
winning smile.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Miss
Hudson, this is the sort of thing that goes in one’s permanent
record,” Schneider warned.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You’ve
got to be kidding me, <i>doctor</i>,” Kathie replied. “I’m
getting harassed – stalked – and you think I should be worried
about my <i>permanent</i> record? Wow. Just wow.” With shaking
hands Kathie snatched up her backpack and strode out of the room.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As
promised, the other kids were waiting for her at the exit.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“How’d
it go?” Brad asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Let’s
just say that I’m probably one step closer to being expelled,”
Kathie said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
told them what happened as they walked to The Tap.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hey,
Kath,” Lori said, “what color did you say the creep’s car was?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Plain
old brown,” Kathie said.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
don’t look now, but I think it’s a couple blocks behind us.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Everyone
except Kathie turned around. She already knew it was him.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“This
is getting ridiculous,” she said. “It feels like he’s crawling
right up my back.” She shivered and Mark put his arm around her
shoulders.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
hope he’s not the jealous type,” Brad joked. Lori slapped at him.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,”
Mark said, taking his arm away, “maybe I shouldn’t have done
that.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
that’s okay,” Kathie said. His arm had felt good. “That’s the
whole thing right there. Why should I have to change my behavior
because of some jerk?” She was glad when Mark put his arm back
around her.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When
they got the The Tap, Lori looked back. “Looks like he’s gone,”
she reported. “Maybe his mommy needs him at home.” Everyone
chuckled. Kathie tried to relax and enjoy her new friends, but her
eyes kept wandering to the little hangout’s greasy, fly-specked
window.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As
soon as Kathie walked into the house, the phone rang. No way was she
going to answer it, but she didn’t have to; Marie was standing
right next to it. She held up three fingers, signifying what, Kathie
didn’t know.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hello?
Hello? Listen creep, quit calling here.” Now Kathie got it: this
was his third call today. “The police <i>will</i> be called!”
Marie slammed down the receiver, her face red and her hands shaking.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Jonathan
came up and hugged her knees. “Momma, who was that? Momma, what’s
wrong?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Marie
shut her eyes for a second then hugged the boy to her. “It’s just
someone playing a bad trick, that’s all,” she told him. She eyed
Kathie over the top of his head. “Why don’t you and Frankie go
play trains in the basement before we eat.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Getting
to play trains before dinner was a real treat. The boys scurried off,
leaving the two women to talk alone.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“He
was outside school today,” Kathie said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“He’s
called three times in the last half an hour and I thought I saw him
drive by earlier,” Marie told her. “Maybe contacting the police
isn’t such a bad idea. This is getting on my nerves.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
froze. She wasn’t very fond of the police, nor they of her, just by
virtue of how she dressed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Marie
looked at the big kitchen clock. “Crap, I’ve got to get supper
started.” She looked at her sister. “Could we stand just one more
day?” she asked. “Come home right after school tomorrow and I’ll
farm the kids out at a friend’s house so we can tackle it first
thing. That work?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
shrugged. One more day probably wouldn’t matter. Maybe if it was
Marie who called – it was her phone Johnson was calling, after all
– no one would look too closely at her. She’d never been
arrested, per se, but there was that little misunderstanding with the
San Jo, New Mexico, sheriff and a couple of parties that had gotten
out of control when her mother wasn’t home.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Maybe
you could wear that <i>Little House on the Prairie</i> outfit again,”
Marie said, clanging around in the cupboard.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
that worked so well last time,” Kathie shot back.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Marie
gave her a look, glad to see that her sister was actually smiling.
“Point taken,” she said. “Wear what you will!”</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06079213798998281561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-91765065631694856232014-11-29T14:42:00.000-06:002014-12-20T13:41:52.677-06:00Blind Date - Part I
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
By Bettyann Moore</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You
know, maybe if you fixed yourself up a little … some makeup, a
haircut … maybe wear a skirt once in a while …. Pass the peas,
would you, Jim?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
Hudson glared over the top of her granny glasses at her sister, but
the look was lost on Marie, who continued to jabber on.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It’s
a new life, a new place,” Marie declared. “You can reinvent
yourself! With the right look, the right attitude, you could make new
friends.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The
<i>right</i> friends, no doubt,” Kathie said, even though she knew
the sarcasm would be lost on Marie. Her brother-in-law, Jim, gave her
a look, but went back to shoveling food into his face.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Exactly!”
Marie said, going into the kitchen to retrieve more bread. “I mean,
why get involved with the same kind of people that you knew back
home? Jonathon, sit up, please; you’re slouching. I saw that,
Frank, quit trying to hide your peas.” Marie set the bread basket
on the table and hooked her hands under her oldest son’s armpits
and hauled him up straight.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Before
she’d come to live with her sister, Kathie had never really noticed
the ten years’ difference in their ages. When did Marie becomes
such a … an … adult? True, they never really lived in the same
house together for very long, but Marie was fast becoming a real
drag. Kathie tried to keep her mouth shut; it was a huge thing for a
27-year-old to take on the care and feeding of a wayward teenager,
but seriously, a new haircut? Wear a skirt? It was 1971, for cripes
sake. Marie was poodle skirts and sweater sets to Kathie’s
embroidered blue jeans and tie-dyed t-shirts. <i>Maybe I should have
just kept on running,</i> Kathie thought.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Can
I be excused, Mom?” Jonathan said. “Can Auntie Kathie play Uno
with us?” he added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yes,
you <i>may</i>,” their mom said, “but I think you should ask your
Auntie Kathie about Uno.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
smiled at the two eager faces. That was one good thing, the nephews.
They were naughty, snotty and oh, so much fun. Jonathan looked shyly
at his aunt.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Will
you?” he asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“This’ll
be our billionth game in less than a week, but sure, what the heck,”
Kathie said, smiling.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yay!”
the boys chorused.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Wash
up and put on your jams first,” Marie scolded, causing a louder
chorus of of ‘awwwwws.’</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ten
games of Uno over (Kathie) the dishes done and the kids put to bed
(Marie), Kathie finally settled onto her “smoking porch,” the
tiny second-floor balcony that no one used but her. Cigarettes were
her last vice, having simply abandoned other drugs and alcohol. Not
that she used any of it in great quantities.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
If
it weren’t for the railing, Marie would have knocked Kathie off the
small space when she came barging through the door.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Gimme
one,” she demanded, holding out two fingers in the universal
smoking symbol.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
looked up and hesitated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“A
cigarette? You want a cigarette?” She was already pulling one from
her crumpled pack. “Won’t Jim be upset, disown you and all that?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Marie
leaned up against the railing. She grabbed the offered cigarette and
lighter and lit up, inhaling deeply. “He’s in the shower,” she
said, nodding her head toward the window. “I only smoke when you’re
around.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
so it’s my fault?” Kathie said, only half-teasing. “If I jumped
off this balcony, would you follow me then, too?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Marie
waved smoke from around her head. “Don’t be silly,” she said.
Marie had never been good at recognizing sarcasm or nuance.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So,
anyway, like I was saying at dinner, I’d be glad to help you buy or
make some new clothes. It’d be fun.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Fun
for you maybe,” Kathie said. “I’m perfectly happy and
comfortable wearing what I wear. ”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Pffffft,”
Marie said, blowing smoke out at the same time. She gave her sister a
sidelong glance. “Make new friends at school yet?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’ve
only been there two weeks!” Kathie said. “Give me time. People in
this town are weird anyway.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Weird
how?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It’s
like they’re not curious about anything!” Kathie said. “It’s
like no one’s ever been anywhere or done anything and the really
weird part is that they seem perfectly fine with that.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Marie
shrugged and took a long last draw off her cigarette. “You have to
admit that we’re the weird ones here; most people haven’t lived
in four different states on opposite ends of the country or gone to
12 different schools in 12 years. That’s what it’s been for you,
hasn’t it?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So
dazzle them with your experience, talk about your travels.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Around
here, mentioning that you’d hitchhiked from Maine to California –
twice – just makes everyone think you’re a freak.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Marie
laughed and pulled a small bottle of breath spray out of her apron
pocket and aimed it into her mouth, then coughed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You
still smell like smoke,” Kathie pointed out.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
know, but I’ll just blame it on you.” Marie smirked. “Oh, I
came out here for a reason!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You
mean besides bumming a smoke off me?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Ha,
smart ass. Yes, besides that. Now don’t kill me ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh
crap, now what?” Kathie lit up another cigarette and saw the envy
in her sister’s eyes.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It’s
just I felt so bad that you’re so lonely ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’m
not lonely!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Sure
you are,” Marie forged on. “So, I have this friend who has a
nephew; he’s a couple of years older than you are ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
you didn’t!”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It’s
no big deal,” Marie insisted. “It’s not like it’s even a real
date. Just lunch.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Lunch?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yes,
at the First Congregational Church. On Sunday. It’s their annual
fundraiser.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What?
Where? A church? You’re kidding, right?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
thought it would be sort of, I don’t know, safe and, well,
wholesome,” Marie said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Argh!
I can’t believe you did that!” Kathie cried. “Wait, Sunday?
This Sunday? Two days from now?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yes,
this Sunday, goofus. His name is Pete or Paul or something and he’ll
be here at 11:30 to pick you up. I don’t think jeans and t-shirt
are a good idea for a church function ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
so that’s what all that crap about new clothes was about!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well
… sort of.” Marie saw the light in the bathroom window go out;
Jim would be wondering where she was. “Oh, and he’s going to call
you on Saturday, you know, to get to know you a bit.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh
for fuck ...” Kathie stopped and rolled her eyes. “Marie,” she
said, “I know you’re doing what you think is best. And I
appreciate you taking me in and all, I really do. So, I’ll go out
on this non-date with some dork, but hear this: Never, ever get
involved in my personal life again. I’m almost 18, I’ve been
making my own decisions for a long time now. You lived with Mother
once, you know what I mean. And, yeah, I messed up a little, but just
let me get through this last year of school and I’ll be out of your
hair.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Marie
cocked her head and reached out and stroked her sister’s cheek.
“Oh, sweetie, I don’t want you ‘out of my hair.’ I love
having you here! But I hear you, I’ll back off. Probably.” She
chucked Katie under the chin, grinned and went back inside, humming.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh
crap.” Kathie sat down on the cold cement and crushed out her
cigarette in the tuna can that served as her make-shift ashtray. She
was just so damn tired. Tired of making it up as she went along.
Tired of running. Tired of being the ‘bad girl.’ She pulled her
knees up and rested her head on them. Maybe her sister was right.
Maybe she needed to remake herself, see if maybe hanging around with
the ‘good kids’ would turn things around. She snorted and lit up
another cigarette. “Maybe so,” she said aloud, “but I’ll bet
they’re not half as fun.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
Kathieeeeee!” Marie sung out the next evening, “there’s someone
on the phone for youuuuuu!” She held out the receiver as Kathie
uncurled herself from the floor where she’d been trying to teach
cribbage to her nephews. She couldn’t help but roll her eyes as she
took the phone from her sister.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hello?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Uh,
hi, um, this is Peter, uh, Johnson. Uh, we’re, uh, going to a ….”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Trying
to get over the name Peter Johnson – who would do that to a child?
– Kathie broke in. “To a church luncheon tomorrow?” she
supplied.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
yeah, that.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
hi,” Kathie said, shooting daggers with her eyes at her sister.
“Nice to hear from you.” <i>Ack,</i> she thought, <i>how inane</i>!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
right, yeah, my aunt thought ...”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Sure,
a good idea,” Kathie broke in again. She hoped she could just chalk
off the stammering to being nervous, though the guy was two years
older and all. “So, do you go to the Congregational church?” she
asked, feeling like she was dragging stuff out of him. “Just so you
know, I’m not much of a church-goer.” Marie was in a fit of
silent laughter, so Kathie turned away from her.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
uh, that’s, like, my aunt’s church. Me and my parents go to Holy
Redeemer. We’re Catholic.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie’s
mind raced. He had a bad grasp of grammar, first of all. He likely
lived with his parents. And they belonged to one of the most
patriarchal institutions in the world. <i><span style="text-decoration: none;">Nice
match-up, Marie</span></i>, she thought.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Ha,
well, the one and only time I was in a Catholic church, I got
stalked. It was in Mexico City, at the Metropolitan Cathedral. Ever
been there?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No.
Never been south of Dixon.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You
mean the Mason-Dixon line?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
Dixon. Dixon, Illinois? Family has a farm down there. Governor Ronald
Reagan was born there.” Peter sounded proud.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie’s
heart sunk. Reagan, the B-movie actor, the guy who eliminated free
schooling in her home state? Ronald RAYguns? Ugh. She went on anyway.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
so it’s this huge, gorgeous place with all this sculpture, a gold
altar and stained glass, carvings and amazing art everywhere. I was
there with a bunch of kids from Spanish class. You ever take
Spanish?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Silence.
“Huh? Uh, no, I took shop.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Right,”
Kathie went on. “So we’re following a tour guide around and
suddenly I feel someone, like, right behind me, breathing down my
neck. I turn and it’s this guy and he’s looking at the art like
he doesn’t even notice me. So I sort of squeeze my way through the
group and get closer to the guide. But it happens again and again.
Even the kids in my class start noticing because he gives up
pretending he’s taking the tour and just stares and stares at me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
No
comment from Peter. <i>Maybe this wasn’t the best story to tell,</i>
Kathie thought, but went on anyway.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Finally,
I tell one of the chaperones and she grabs my arm like it’s my
fault and drags me out to the bus and makes me stay out there with
the bus driver until everyone else is done with the tour. That was
even scarier because the guy comes out of the cathedral and he stands
right outside the bus and stares into the windows. I’m all hunkered
down in a seat, but I keep thinking the only thing standing between
me and being abducted is the bus driver who doesn’t speak any
English and keeps a bottle of tequila under his seat.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Wow,”
Peter finally said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
well, it turned out okay, obviously, because I’m here, but that was
my one and only time in a Catholic church.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Holy
Redeemer doesn’t have no art,” Peter said. “Except maybe the
stuff the kids hang outside the Sunday school room.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“There’s
no statues of Jesus or Mary or stained glass or anything?” Kathie
asks.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
yeah, stuff like that, but no <i>art</i>.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
took a deep breath. “Wow, look at the time!” she said. “I’ve
got homework I need to finish, so I better get to it. Good-bye,
Peter, nice talking to you!” Kathie hung up the phone before he
could get another word in.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Holeeeee
crap, Marie!” she said, throwing herself into an armchair, “what
have you gotten me into?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Auntie
Kathie said ‘crap’,” Frank said, elbowing his brother.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Frank,”
Marie said, giving him a warning look. “Why don’t you two head up
and brush your teeth? I’ll be right up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Aw,
do we have to?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Now.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Marie
waited until the boys were safely up the stairs. “Little pitchers
have big ears,” she said. “How come I never heard that story
about the cathedral before?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
got a million of ‘em,” Kathie said flatly. “And quit trying to
change the subject! I think I’m going to be sick by tomorrow.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
come on, he can’t be that bad. Besides, you only had one little
conversation with him and from where I was sitting, it was pretty
one-sided.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“For
good reason!” Katie said. “The boy took shop! He likes Ronald
Reagan! He lives with his parents! He’s never been south of Dixon …
Illinois, in case you’re wondering.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Marie
got up from the floor and stretched, groaning. “Since when did you
become such a snob?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Snob?
Me?” Kathie sputtered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
you.” Marie bent down and picked up the game. “So he’s a little
rough around the edges, so what? He sounds sweet and loyal; he’d
probably treat you like gold. Not like that last guy. What was his
name? John? Judas?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Jonah,
his name was Jonah,” Kathie said. “Don’t go there, sister of
mine.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Marie
sighed. “Fine, I won’t go there, but I think you see my point.
Just go out with the guy one time and that will be that.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
buried her face in her hands. “Fine,” she said, her voice
muffled. “But only because you said that if I did you’d butt out
of my business. Right?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Marie
was flitting about, straightening things that didn’t need
straightening.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Right,
Marie?” Kathie took her hands away from her face.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Right,
right,” Marie replied vaguely. A thump sounded overhead. “I
really need to get those boys to bed before they kill each other. You
know how siblings are.” She smirked at her sister and headed up the
stairs.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
grimaced at her image in the mirror. “I’ll never, ever let her
talk me into something like this again,” she said to her
reflection. She knew the curlers were a bad idea, she wasn’t sure
just how bad until now. She grabbed an elastic band then brushed,
pulled and smoothed the wildness into submission. She looked like a
school marm, but what the heck, she was going to a church social
after all. At least she’d put her foot down about wearing a short
skirt and heels; the long gauze skirt and loose-knit blouse were
comfortable and hers, not her sister’s.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“God,
you look like a refugee from <i>Little House on the Prairie</i>,”
Marie said when she saw her. “You sure I can’t find a bonnet for
you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Very
funny,” Kathie said. “I’m not out to impress anyone. What you
see is what you get.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
doorbell rang and Jonathan jumped up from his circle of Tonka trucks
and ran to get to it first, Frank close at his heels.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Me,
let me!” Frank said, pulling on his brother’s shirt. “Mom! Tell
him it’s my turn!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Boys
...” Marie cautioned. She nudged the boys out of the way and opened
the door herself.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Peter
Johnson was big, hulking big. The corduroy jacket he wore barely
covered his wrists and strained across his shoulders. Kathie was
relieved that he wasn’t wearing a tie and that his brown suede
shoes needed a good brushing. He reminded her of the wrestlers at
school; it looked, in fact, that he’d had his nose broken a time or
two. If he was a jock – Kathie hated all sports – that would
definitely put the nail in the coffin.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Marie
ushered him inside, babbling inanely about his aunt, the boys, how
nice it was to meet him.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“And
this,” she said, turning to Kathie, “is my much younger sister
Kathie.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
If
Marie was looking for some sort of compliment about how young she
looked for her age (and she was, Kathie knew), she was barking up the
wrong hulking tree. Peter offered Kathie a limp hand to shake without
really looking at her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Jonathan
tugged on the big man’s coat sleeve. “Do you like trucks?” he
asked. “I have a zillion Tonka trucks.” He held one up for Peter
to see.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hey,
that’s a 1964 Mighty Dump,” Peter gushed. “The first and the
best.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah?”
Jonathan said. “It was my dad’s even though he was too old to
play with trucks.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
could see this turning into a marathon. She wanted to get this over
with.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
we better get going,” she said before Peter could be drawn down to
kid level. “I’m hungry already.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Uh,
sure,” Peter stammered, looking like he’d rather be on the floor
playing with the boys. “Uh, nice to meet you Mrs. Hunter.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
car waiting at the curb was a big brown Oldsmobile with brown
interior. Kathie was surprised not to see Peter’s father at the
wheel; it was obviously his dad’s car.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Nice
car,” she murmured as she settled in her seat, making sure her
skirt wouldn’t get stuck in the door.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
yeah, thanks.” He started up the car and pulled away from the curb,
even using his blinker.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Smells
new.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Just
bought it a week ago at Rhode’s.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh.”
There went the father’s car theory.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You
ever been?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Been
where?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“To
Rhode’s.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
can’t say that I have. I haven’t been here that long and I don’t
drive.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Rhode
is good people,” Peter said. “Never cheats a guy. It was between
this and a TransAm.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“And
you chose this.” Kathie tried to keep the incredulity out of her
voice. It seemed that young Mr. Johnson could talk after all, as long
as it was about cars or Tonka trucks.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yep.
Them TransAms are for jocks. I ain’t no jock.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
was pleasantly surprised. “So, you didn’t wrestle or play
football in school?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Me?”
Peter took his eyes off the road for a second to give her a look.
“Oh,” he said, noticing how she looked at his face. “My nose.
That’s from my Pa.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Your
dad hit you?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
he was carrying a two-by-four and he stopped short. I sort of run
into it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
wasn’t funny, but Kathie had to bite the inside of her cheek to
keep from laughing.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Here
we are,” Peter said, parking on a street that looked a lot like
Marie’s street. Kathie couldn’t get used to how close everything
was.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
church hall, a low-ceiling ed, beige room with black and white floor
tiles, echoed with the hum of people talking much too loudly. It
smelled of overcooked chicken, old cabbage and sneakers.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What
do you think the mean age is?” Kathie said as they searched for a
place to sit down. “75? 80?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Peter
frowned. “Just cuz they’re old doesn’t mean they’re mean,”
he said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
I meant … oh, never mind. There’s a couple of spots over there,”
she said, nodding to a table.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
elderly people at the table barely looked up from their plates of
chicken, coleslaw, beans and bread. The food was served cafeteria
style; Peter volunteered to go get their plates while Kathie held
their chairs.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Light
on the beans,” she told him. She looked around the table and saw a
blue-haired woman dressed in an orange and blue kaftan eying her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Such
a sweet boy,” the old lady said. “He must love you bunches.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
actually, this is the first time we met,” Kathie told her.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
woman elbowed the man next to her, causing his fork, which had been
mid-mouth, to clatter to his plate. “You hear that, Malcolm?” she
said. “Boy doesn’t even know the girl and he’s waiting on her
hand and foot.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Eh?
Your foot bothering you again? Give it a wiggle or two and leave me
be.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
woman nodded at Kathie. “See?” she said. “You got it good.
Latch onto that one.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Peter
appeared and set a heaping plate of food in front of Kathie; his had
even more. She should have told him she only liked white meat.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
can get more if you want,” Peter said, tucking a napkin under his
shirt collar.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hmm,
I’ll think about that,” Kathie said dryly, trying to separate the
slaw from the beans.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Such
a gentleman,” the old woman said, elbowing Malcolm again. Peter
blushed and the old man grunted.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Such
a pretty girl,” the woman said to Kathie. “I don’t recognize
you, though. Who’s your family?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
other people at the table, including the woman’s husband, raised
their heads.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You
probably don’t know them,” Kathie said. “They’ve only been
hear a couple of years. My sister’s family, the Hunters?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“There’s
Jake Hunter out on Wilkins Road,” another woman chimed in. “His
family up and left him, though.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hunter
… Hunter … they in that Church of Ladder Date Saints?” another
old man piped in.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No-o-o-o,”
Kathie said, smiling. Peter kept shoveling in the food.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What
about you, boy?” Blue-hair asked. “You have kin?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Peter
swallowed and took a long drink of milk before replying. “My
grandpa was Steward Johnson, lived out on Knoll Hill?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Papist,”
one of the old guys muttered and went back to his plate.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh
my, Stewie Johnson,” Blue-hair crowed. “Why, he used to be keen
on me back in the day.” She fluffed her stiff hair and gave her
husband a meaningful look. He gnawed off a hunk of drumstick.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“My
Aunt Doris goes here,” Peter said, nodding to indicate the whole
church.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“My
yes, she’s in the choir. Voice of an angel,” Blue-hair said. She
reached over and patted Kathie’s hand. “Family tells,” she
said, nodding sagely. “A keeper,” she added, whispering.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As
it was, Kathie and Peter never really talked during lunch. That was
okay with Kathie; she only knew so much about cars. It was just after
one o’clock when they pulled up outside her sister’s house. Given
it was daylight, Kathie didn’t worry about that “after date
kiss.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Thank
you for the nice lunch,” she said, reaching for the door handle.
She thought she saw the curtain move in the living room.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yep,”
Peter said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kathie
hopped out of the car, gave a little wave and headed into the house.
<i>Glad that’s over,</i> she thought.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So?”
Marie asked at the door where she’d obviously been waiting.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So
nothing,” Kathie said. “We ate, we came home. He’s not my type,
Marie. Nice in a boring kind of way, but there’s just no spark.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh,
come on! You barely gave the boy a chance!” Marie was following
Kathie up the stairs. All Kathie wanted to do was get into some
jeans, take some Alka-Seltzer and play trucks with the boys. She
stopped on the step above her sister and turned to face her.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
did what you wanted me to do,” she said. “It’s done. Now keep
your part of the bargain.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“But
what if he calls?” Marie asked. “Then what? What should I say?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
don’t care,” Kathie said, going to her tiny room. “Tell him I
have scurvy. Tell him I died. Besides, he’s not going to call,
trust me.” She shut her door firmly behind her.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“He’s
going to call!” Marie yelled through the door. “Sister’s
intuition!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Unfortunately,
Marie was right.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06079213798998281561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-19815639760678793702014-11-21T12:43:00.001-06:002014-11-21T12:43:27.766-06:00The Battle for October Sky – Part Five<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUcfbKYGDzQWFd-PA24YeFCDwV-gORIyhEJrlznFoOCxfMQg7vEzucqg2egtK6r-mvkTdRnbO8FzeOw8lwH1UZB9RymmT9wq5Lfwr_E6jpGALow7e62BLyZOf4Nlsd_RRnRWDVEa3nPQ/s1600/Giffard1852.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUcfbKYGDzQWFd-PA24YeFCDwV-gORIyhEJrlznFoOCxfMQg7vEzucqg2egtK6r-mvkTdRnbO8FzeOw8lwH1UZB9RymmT9wq5Lfwr_E6jpGALow7e62BLyZOf4Nlsd_RRnRWDVEa3nPQ/s1600/Giffard1852.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /><br />They ran up the hill’s path pushing a cart laden with gas cylinders, disarmed rockets, and a crate of weasels. Sweat stung Beaumont’s eyes, and his gums throbbed as Ives cursed them for laggards. Beaumont’s pocket watch, secured to the cart by its fob chain, swung before him. The sweeping second hand told him that no matter how his legs burned, or his lungs ached, he would need to keep running for thirty more seconds. They needed to make it another hundred feet, and then he could rest. <br /><br />Chevket pushed beside him, seemingly at his ease apart from casting nervous glances down the path behind them. Beaumont hoped his first officer’s luck would continue to hold. The man escaped the explosion that both knocked out Beaumont and Ives and claimed the lives of his crewmen, ironically, by hiding in the cave filled with hydrogen cylinders. In the ensuing chaos, he secured a fully-loaded hand cart from an unwary deliveryman, and circled back when he realized Ives and Beaumont were being held in the main building.<br /><br />The cart hit a rock in the path and bounced, the cylinders jostling with heart-stopping clangs, but thankfully no sparks. The weasels chittered and snapped in their cage, which also mercifully remained latched. Beaumont was hunched forward as he pushed, and his face mere inches from the cage. It would be a particularly horrid experience to be swarmed over by their rancid bodies and sharp teeth should they escape. The weapons’ inclusion went against Chevket’s wishes, who had a heated, whispered argument with Ives when the agent insisted on including them. Chevket urged for immediate escape, citing the remaining crew of the <i>October Sky</i> relying on them all for getting the ship back to port, while Ives argued that bringing home this evidence of a new weapon of paramount importance. Beaumont reluctantly agreed with the agent only because the cold calculus of strategy placed this new weapon’s importance over the safety of an airship’s crew.<br /><br />And so they ran, heedless of the shouts and rifle reports behind them, hoping that Ives assertion that they get to the top of the valley with their cart in eight minutes and not a second less was correct. The rifle fire fell off, and an ornithopter’s engine whined as its pilot prepared it for launch, doubtlessly with a rifle squad on board. Within minutes, they would be caught in the open.<br /><br />“Fifteen seconds,” Beaumont hissed.<br /><br />Ives cursed their collective legitimacy and speculated on their mothers’ improbable indiscretions with the animal world.<a name='more'></a><br /><br />“Permission to shoot that man if we don’t make it, Captain?” Chevket said between breaths.<br /><br />Beaumont puffed and pumped his legs faster. “Granted.”<br /><br />The second hand on Beaumont’s watch swept past the eight-minute mark, and he called the time. They brought the cart to a stop and looked back over the valley. The ornithopter was lifting, its pilot steadying the craft as its legs left the ground. It hovered, and Beaumont could make out five other men in its open cockpit, rifles at the ready.<br /><br />“I thought you said eight minutes, Ives,” Beaumont said.<br /><br />“Perhaps the devices were discovered,” Chevket said.<br /><br />Ives shook his head as he stood with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. The ornithopter began rising, ten feet, then twenty. There was an audible pop, then the wooden factory building shattered to splinters as a fireball rolled into the air. The ornithopter was thrown back towards the valley wall when a second explosion like dragon’s breath shot from the fuel dump carved into the rock. The ornithopter turned over, spinning like a ball and augered into the lake. The rumbling of the explosions echoed through the surrounding valleys for several seconds before silence fell.<br /><br />Ives spread his hands. “I said a cigarette burns for eight minutes on<i> average</i>. You can’t expect precision munitions when one has to scrounge for parts.”<br /><br />*<br /><br />Wallace’s relief upon their return was such that Beaumont thought the engineer grew two inches before their eyes. <br /><br />“How soon can we have her aloft, Mister Wallace?” Beaumont asked. <br /><br />“Fifteen minutes to fill, another fifteen to shift ballast and do a rough trim. She’s airworthy, but will handle like a cow once we’re underway.”<br /><br />Ives snorted and opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it as Wallace glared at him. Perhaps the council agent could be taught, Beaumont mused. <br /><br />Beaumont pursed his lips and looked over his airship. The ship’s envelope was flattened from top to bottom, and air sacs bulged where battle damage had ripped the metal caging away. The <i>October Sky</i> was less a sleek cigar and more a tumored slug, but he would get her home, if he had to make a deal with the Devil herself. <br /><br />“Very well, Mister Wallace, make it so.”<br /><br />“And the rockets?” Chevket asked.<br /><br />“They must be kept safe, Captain,” Ives said. “We need to know more about their manufacture and warn the council. I’m afraid I must insist on this point. Post a guard, two men with side arms, and no one but myself allowed access.”<br /><br />“We haven’t the crewmen to spare , sir,” Chevket said. “It will take every hand to operate <i>October Sky</i>.” He stood with an apparently impassive face, but Beaumont could see the man’s tension in the set of his spine. <br /><br />“Then you might have to actually get your hands dirty, man!” Ives snapped. The man’s hand crept toward his sidearm, but Chevket did not blink.<br /><br />“That will do, Agent Ives,” Beaumont said. “Mister Chevket is only exercising his prerogative to remind those of us in command as to the ramifications of our orders.” As if the crew hadn’t already seen the rockets and figured their nature as Beaumont had already. “See to it, Mister Chevket. And while you’re at it, see to it that these creatures are properly stowed for transport.” Beaumont indicated the weasel cage. “Consult with Mister Wallace if needed.”<br /><br />“Does Mister Ives have any specific instructions on the weasels?” Chevket said, turning to the agent.<br /><br />“Use your prerogative Mister Chevket.” Ives turned on a heel and strode for the gangway.<br /><br />“I admit my surprise at your antagonism,” Beaumont said. “Best make sure you obey his instructions to the letter, Chevket, he’s a dangerous man to make your enemy.” <br /><br />Chevket smiled his bland smile and inclined his head. “I think you have it the wrong way around, Captain. If you’ll excuse me, I will see to putting Agent Ives’ orders into effect.”<br /><br />Beaumont held in a sigh. Chevket would certainly earn a captaincy, but would he ever receive one?<br /><br />They cast off within the hour, drawing against an unfortunate headwind with their most un-aerodynamic airframe. The helmsman exchanged nervous glances with the navigator, and Beaumont caught the hiss of whispered conversations as eyes searched the sky for pursuit. Beaumont could not blame them, he felt as if he were sitting underneath a lumbering bomb himself. Still, the mood could affect the crew’s performance, and that would not do. He caught the eye of Ensign Charles, who was biting his lip and looking more like the twelve-year-old schoolboy than an officer. Charles started, but relaxed when Beaumont winked.<br /><br />“I daresay Young Mister Charles will be shaving by the time we make port,” Beaumont said. Chuckles and smiles made their way around the bridge. “Mister Chevket, please make a note to draw up an order of training for the ensign on the finer points of grooming one’s beard. It would not do to have Mister Charles greet his mother with birds and the like nesting in his facial hair.”<br /><br />“Of course, Captain,” Chevket said with all the gravitas of ordering the crew to prepare for boarders.<br /><br />Beaumont turned his chair to face the helm. “Mister Docks, what is your opinion on entrusting the use of a straight versus a safety razor to the young ensign.”<br /><br />Docks turned away from the windscreen, where he had been craning his neck from side to side. “Sir?”<br /><br />Beaumont tucked his chin in mock seriousness. “It’s a straightforward question, man! Do we trust that Mister Charles will not lop off an ear with a straight blade at the get-go, or do we make him demonstrate proficiency with a safety razor beforehand?”<br /><br />Docks looked puzzled, his gaze swinging between Charles and Beaumont for a few moments before he regained his composure. “I… I believe the ensign has demonstrated nerve enough to hold a naked blade.”<br /><br />“You’re certain?” Beaumont said.<br /><br />Docks hesitated. “Of course.”<br /><br />Beaumont steepled his fingers. “I see. So would you be willing to sit in the chair and have Mister Charles cut away your own stray whiskers?”<br /><br />Mister Docks glanced at Ensign Charles, whose eyes had grown large, and whose body tensed to the point of a barely perceptible quiver. Docks’ face paled. Beaumont could hold it in no longer. He laughed, setting off a chain reaction of the same around the bridge, and even Docks joined in after a moment or two. Charles smiled, glancing around him, and seemingly not quite certain if he was yet off the hook or not.<br /><br />The speaking tube whistled, and Beaumont watched as Chevket attended to it. The crew went back to their posts, shoulders relaxed and settling into normal bridge chatter. Chevket put the speaking tube away and walked over to lean over Beaumont’s ear.<br /><br />“Contact aft, sir. It appears to be the mother ship to the ornithopters that attacked us earlier.”<br /><br />“Distance?”<br /><br />“Ten miles and closing.”<br /><br />Beaumont nodded. “Sound battle stations, and give priority to the aft batteries.”<br /><br />“They mount twenty-pounders on carriers, we’ll take withering volleys before we can respond with our own fifteens,” Chevket said.<br /><br />“Assuming their captain deigns to close the range, which I would not count upon.”<br /><br />“Then what is our plan, Captain?”<br /><br />Footsteps rang in the gangway leading to the bridge, the unmistakable cadence of Ives approaching. The man had probably been fussing over the rockets like a mother hen and her eggs. The image gave him an idea.<br /><br />“Chevket, do you recall Agent Ives’ exact orders?”<br /><br />“Of course, sir. To the letter.”<br /><br />Beaumont glanced over his shoulder. “As do I. Now here is what I want you to do…” And Beaumont gave Chevket his orders.<br /><br />Ives came close to shouldering Chevket as the two passed, but avoided contact at the last second as Chevket gave ground. The first officer slid down the bridge ladder and ran down the gangway.<br /><br />“Report, Captain,” Ives said. The man didn’t even have the curtesy to look embarrassed or uncomfortable when heads turned and Ensign Charles gasped. <br /><br />“We have an airship coming in behind us, the carrier we encountered earlier.”<br /><br />Ives glanced around the bridge, making the other crewmen take a sudden interest in the panels and controls before them. “And what are you doing about it?”<br /><br />“Nothing.”<br /><br />“Nothing?”<br /><br />Beaumont tapped a finger on his armrest. “Normally the <i>October Sky</i> could easily outrun or outmaneuver every airship in the Caliph’s fleet. That advantage is gone in our current state.”<br /><br />“Then we’ll have to fight our way out.”<br /><br />“A losing proposition, sir. Carriers mount cannons larger than our own, and this one can easily stay well within her effective range while remaining outside our own. With our air cells now partially filled with hydrogen, all it should take is one lucky shot, I would think.”<br /><br />“And you will just let them do it. No, Captain, I’m not going down without a fight.” He drew his pistol, holding it casually, but staring into Beaumont’s eyes.<br /><br />Would Ives do it? Beaumont surprised himself by discovering he did not care. “Do put that thing away, Mister Ives. Shooting me won’t get the crew to fight for you.”<br /><br />“It might give me some satisfaction before we’re shot down.”<br /><br />“If you want satisfaction, file a report when we are back in port. We’re not going to be shot down today, if I have anything to say about it. Now kindly put up your sidearm.”<br /><br />Ives stared back at Beaumont for a few moments longer, but slid the pistol back into its holster. <br /><br />“Thank you.”<br /><br />“So what is this plan of doing nothing that will yet win the day?”<br /><br />“Fortunately, the carrier doesn’t seem to have any ornithopters left, or they would have been deployed by now. So we will wait for their ship to come closer.”<br /><br />“Closer with cannons we cannot match.”<br /><br />“Precisely.”<br /><br />The next few minutes passed in silence, apart from the whistling airstream and thrum of the engines. Ives paced the deck while Beaumont, strapped into his command chair, fought the urge to do the same. His bladder felt near to bursting, though he knew that not to be true. When Marcus Remmy had been his captain, he had always spoken about commanders that could hold their water and while Beaumont had thought he understood the idiom at the time, he only truly appreciated it now. <br /><br />He looked down and found his finger tapping against his armrest. In the rear-view mirrors, the behemoth airship angled to bring its weapons to bear. Seconds later, cannon fire erupted, smoke visible a moment before the thunderclap rattled through the airframe.<br /><br />“Captain,” Ives said, drawing the word out in warning.<br /><br />“Ranging shot. Never hits its target,” Beaumont replied.<br /><br />“What, never?”<br /><br />“Well, hardly ever.” Let the man chew on that, Beaumont thought.<br /><br />Ives began to speak, but was cut off by the speaking tube’s whistle. Ensign Charles answered, putting his ear to the brass end piece.<br /><br />“Mister Chevket reports ready, Captain,” he said in a clear voice.<br /><br />“Very well, commence fire,” Beaumont said.<br /><br />“I thought our cannons were out of range,” Ives said as Charles relayed the command.<br /><br />Beaumont pointed at the mirrors, and they watched as two objects streaked from the<i> October Sky</i> towards the enemy airship. Guns twinkled from the other craft’s decks, but missed the curving and corkscrewing rockets. Then the craft jumped a hundred feet upward as its crew dropped all its ballast, and one rocket dove at the sandbags in pursuit. The other rocket nosed upward, and struck amidships with an explosion like a needle of fire. The airship shuddered as the needle drove upward and then swelled into a gigantic blue-orange cloud.<br /><br />“Brace for –“ Beaumont shouted as the <i>October Sky</i> shook and groaned on the concussive wave. Then everything went quiet, and the flaming wreck of the enemy ship fell into the clouds below.<br /><br />“Damage report?” Beaumont said.<br /><br />“No injuries, all sections holding,” Charles said.<br /><br />Ives folded his arms and turned from the windscreen. “You used those rockets without orders, Captain,” he said.<br /><br />“Technically, your orders were to store them safely, which they were.”<br /><br />“They didn’t have weasels inside them when I left.”<br /><br />“Ah, well, your orders to Mister Chevket regarding the weasels was for him to use his prerogative in the method best suited for storing them. He decided to store the weasels in vessels specifically designed to house them. A good thing too, or else we would have been shot down, rockets and all.”<br /><br />“Perhaps so. Nevertheless, we have lost valuable intelligence.”<br /><br />Beaumont shook his head. “I don’t think so. Mister Wallace assisted with storing the weasels, and will most likely have a working knowledge of how the devices could be manufactured. The rockets did seem rather simple things after all, once you have a weasel to guide them. Moreover, we can now report their effectiveness in combat. Their speed, maneuverability, effectiveness, and even their weaknesses.”<br /><br />“What weaknesses?”<br /><br />“We lost one rocket when its weasel decided to chase a sandbag rather than the craft. If those things can be easily distracted, we may have a chance to counter them.”<br /><br />Ives grunted and turned on his heel, heading for the bridge ladder. No doubt the man would be extra-insufferable for the next few days, but he would come around. For all his bluster, Beaumont knew Ives’ career and reputation depended on favorably reporting this debacle to the council. Perhaps in the future the man would make trouble, but Beaumont would fight that battle when it came to him. In the meantime, he had more important things to worry about.<br /><br />“Secure from battle stations, and see if we can’t find some proper traveling music on the wireless. I could surely use some Willie Nelson or Hank Williams for the journey home.” <br /><br /> The soothing sounds of a steel guitar soon emerged from static over the bridge speakers. Captain Reginald Beaumont loosened the top button at his collar, and settled in for the long ride home. Wadehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08229835689380630612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-68138674665054020992014-11-16T16:14:00.002-06:002014-11-21T12:39:59.248-06:00The Battle for October Sky – Part Four<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUcfbKYGDzQWFd-PA24YeFCDwV-gORIyhEJrlznFoOCxfMQg7vEzucqg2egtK6r-mvkTdRnbO8FzeOw8lwH1UZB9RymmT9wq5Lfwr_E6jpGALow7e62BLyZOf4Nlsd_RRnRWDVEa3nPQ/s1600/Giffard1852.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUcfbKYGDzQWFd-PA24YeFCDwV-gORIyhEJrlznFoOCxfMQg7vEzucqg2egtK6r-mvkTdRnbO8FzeOw8lwH1UZB9RymmT9wq5Lfwr_E6jpGALow7e62BLyZOf4Nlsd_RRnRWDVEa3nPQ/s1600/Giffard1852.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Beaumont woke up on hard-packed earth next to Ives, in the only cage not filled with weasels. To his left and right, the mangy creatures scratched and chewed at the wire mesh separating their enclosures from his own, their rancid musk adding to his blooming headache. Ives huddled in the cell’s middle, wiping at the dried blood at his ears and nose. From somewhere beyond their cage, the thrumming and buzzing of machinery filled the air.<br />
<br />
“How long?” Beaumont asked. <br />
<br />
“About an hour,” Ives said a bit louder than necessary.<br />
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“Any ideas as to where are we?”<br />
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Ives pointed to the cage’s door, where someone had obviously and hastily nailed boards to reinforce their enclosure to withstand escape attempts from larger occupants. Beaumont moved to peer through a gap to find that they were in a dark corner inside the wooden building housing the electrolysis plant. The true scale of the operation made Beaumont blanch.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
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The central area held a twenty-foot tall column wrapped about by pipes, wires, and metal scaffolding. Workers, who eschewed the Caliphate soldier’s normal desert robes for sleeveless shirts and baggy pants, walked the scaffolding, checking gauges, looking inside the column through reinforced windows, and changing out hydrogen cylinders. Beaumont’s gaze followed a bundle of wiring to fifty man-sized lockers. A worker threw a lever on a locker and opened the door, while another worker with a long hooked pole reached in and pulled out a deader by a metal collar attached to its neck. The deader seemed ready to fall over, its necromantic energy spent, as another was maneuvered into place and the locker door shut.<br />
<br />
If his own engineer could get a lifting cell filled in an hour with two deaders and a modest dynamo, this operation would completely refill a ship like the October Sky in the same amount of time. The machine seemed limited only by the availability of the deaders and the lake’s water level. But something still bothered Beaumont, the scale of the place was too large for a location so remote.<br />
<br />
Moreover, along the far wall, pipe sections as big around as Beaumont’s forearm were stacked like honeycombs. A handful of workers gathered around a nearby table and appeared to be assembling some sort of cone-topped cylinder, though Beaumont couldn’t fathom its purpose. One of the workers brought out a limp weasel from a nearby cage with a pair of long-handled tongs and lowered it into the machine. <br />
<br />
A foot scraped nearby, and a guard in desert robes appeared. He walked toward the door and banged on it with the butt of his rifle. He grunted as Beaumont retreated a step and then resumed his patrol, giving the weasels a wide berth as they surged to their pen’s door at his passing.<br />
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“What do you make of it?” Ives asked.<br />
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Beaumont came away from the slit. “It’s too big. It could resupply the Caliph’s entire fleet in a week, and keep it stocked for months.”<br />
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“Perhaps their airships leak more gas than our own,” Ives ventured.<br />
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“Let’s say they do. Does it make sense to put a facility this large in the middle of nowhere? Practically unguarded?”<br />
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“It is closer to the Badlands. They need the deaders for power.”<br />
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“Possibly, but it’s surely easier to transport deaders to a more secure lake within the Caliphate than to make their airships fly here to resupply. And for just hydrogen? Where are the foodstuffs? The barrels of axle grease and bolts of sail cloth? Bombs and the like?”<br />
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“Perhaps they’re afraid of explosions,” Ives said.<br />
<br />
“As they should be,” Beaumont said. “But there’s prudence, and there’s stupidity. The Caliphate, for all its crudeness, is not altogether stupid, despite what our esteemed leadership thinks. ”<br />
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Ives smiled in the dimness. “You say that as if you hold no confidence in the Council.”<br />
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Beaumont blew out a sigh and sat facing Ives. “Why us, Ives? Of all the ships available, the October Sky was singled out for this mission rather than others closer to your position. Why give vague, sweeping latitude to a council attaché over a ship of the line?”<br />
<br />
“I couldn’t possibly comment,” Ives said. <br />
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“Not even now, in this place?” Beaumont’s arms swept the cell.<br />
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Ives looked away.<br />
<br />
“So be it, then. Youth ever believes in its personal invincibility. Pity that you won’t learn from your illusion’s shattering.”<br />
<br />
Ives stood and swung a booted foot at a weasel’s head poking through the wire. The animal’s bones cracked, and it flailed about as its brethren fell upon it.<br />
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“The problem with your kind, Beaumont, is that you presume to lecture all within earshot with your so-called wisdom.”<br />
<br />
“My kind?”<br />
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“Yes, one who measures a man by his gunnery scores and accumulated medals .”<br />
<br />
“You believe this?”<br />
<br />
“Your Air Marshal says as much, talking down to the council he is supposed to serve.”<br />
<br />
“Ah. And because of wounded pride, the council sacrifices my crew.”<br />
<br />
“If you choose to see it that way. Or one could say your Air Marshal’s bravado and boasting provoked the council to take a more direct hand in fleet operations.” Ives thought for a moment and shrugged. “With some bad luck along the way.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, quite.”<br />
<br />
The weasels had tired gnawing on their wounded brother, and went back to scratching at the cage walls. Beaumont looked on the corpse with pity, then with shock as its skeletal form twitched and writhed. No creature could have lived through that mauling, and yet the form shambled and scratched its way along the floor as much as its damaged musculature allowed. It reminded Beaumont of something he had seen when still on his first tour as an ensign, a tour that took his ship into the Badlands with orders to secure necromantic power sources. He remembered a deader, legs shorn by accidental cannon discharge, scrabbling and inching its way towards him, a look of naked hunger on its desiccated face. A look that all the weasels in the cages around him shared. <br />
<br />
“Ives,” he whispered, “if I were you, I would keep my distance from those creatures.”<br />
<br />
“Vermin have never bothered me, captain.”<br />
<br />
“Time to make an exception, then. Have you ever wondered why the deader curse affects only humankind? I believe we have found evidence that it does not.”<br />
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Ives looked from side to side, and scooted away from the walls. “Saint Van Halen,” he whispered. <br />
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Beaumont’s stomach sank as an idea struck him. “Indeed. And if you had discovered multitudes such as these, and had an excess of hydrogen what might you do?”<br />
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Ives rose to his feet and ran to the door, peering out through the slit. “Tiny motors, fuselage, directional fins, and a small warhead.”<br />
<br />
“And a deader weasel, to which an airship must look an awful lot like an egg. This isn’t a refueling station, it’s a munitions factory.”<br />
<br />
“Blast.” <br />
<br />
“Worse, if those deader weasels can actually guide their craft to a target, our advantage in gunnery evaporates.” <br />
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Ives nodded. “Then we had better redouble our escape effort.” <br />
<br />
“Really?” Beaumont asked, “And how do you propose to effect that?” <br />
<br />
A footstep scuffed outside the cages and the weasels surged to investigate. A curly-haired shadow stopped before the door’s crack.<br />
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“Might I be of assistance, Captain?” Chevket said. <br />
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Beaumont’s heart rose, and he wanted to crow, but he kept his decorum. “Why yes, Mister Chevket , we would quite appreciate your assistance in opening the door.” Wadehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08229835689380630612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3644538701868206516.post-59147322223891185432014-11-07T14:13:00.001-06:002014-11-07T14:13:15.675-06:00Battle for October Sky – Part Three<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUcfbKYGDzQWFd-PA24YeFCDwV-gORIyhEJrlznFoOCxfMQg7vEzucqg2egtK6r-mvkTdRnbO8FzeOw8lwH1UZB9RymmT9wq5Lfwr_E6jpGALow7e62BLyZOf4Nlsd_RRnRWDVEa3nPQ/s1600/Giffard1852.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUcfbKYGDzQWFd-PA24YeFCDwV-gORIyhEJrlznFoOCxfMQg7vEzucqg2egtK6r-mvkTdRnbO8FzeOw8lwH1UZB9RymmT9wq5Lfwr_E6jpGALow7e62BLyZOf4Nlsd_RRnRWDVEa3nPQ/s1600/Giffard1852.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /><br />False dawn’s light blotted at the darkness. The<i> October Sky</i> listed to its port side, weighed down by its flaccid envelope. Crewmen scurried over the craft’s superstructure like ants on a dying whale, shouting out reports of battle damage to their section chiefs below. Beaumont paced the ground from bow to stern, allowing the crews to see him as they went about their jobs. Agent Ives trailed behind him, saying nothing. <br /><br />They had been fortunate to land in a pocket canyon; the enemy would have to be directly overhead to spot the <i>October Sky</i>. However, their hidden berth would only buy them a few hours extra should the Caliph’s airships discover the battle-wrecked ornithopters and begin an organized search. With steep walls lined with loose rock, the canyon would become an unescapable killing ground once under attack. Captain Beaumont checked the riflemen at the canyon’s rim, braced against the scree and ready to call out should anything approach.<br /><br />“Captain,” Chevket said. <br /><br />“How bad is she?” he said.<br /><br />His first officer ran a hand through his hair and glanced back at the ship. “A dozen injured, but thankfully no lives lost. We have twenty cells holed beyond repair, twice that need patching to become airworthy again. The belly turrets are inoperable, and we have numerous twisted struts and popped rivets.”<br /><br />Beaumont had feared as much. “And our helium?”<br /><br />Chevket blew out and shook his head. “Mister Wallace is still making his estimate.”<br /><br />“You’re quibbling, aren’t you?” Ives said. “You know, but you don’t want to be the bearer of bad news. Just spit it out, man.” <br /><a name='more'></a><br />Beaumont arched an eyebrow at the agent but looked back at Chevket. “Well, Mister?”<br /><br />Chevket spared a dark look for Ives before swallowing. “It doesn’t look good, sir. I hope Mister Wallace will prove me wrong.”<br /><br />“Then let’s go see what our engineer has to say,” Beaumont said.<br /><br />*<br /><br />Mister Wallace came from the bowels of the ship covered in grease and shallow cuts. When he saw Beaumont and the others approach, he shouted at a deck hand to make sure the deaders were chained securely before turning his back on them. He stormed over to Beaumont and pointed at Ives.<br /><br />“You incompetent flat-lander! How does it feel to know you killed us all?” <br /><br />Ives’ hand drifted to hover over the sidearm strapped to his belt. “Keep talking,” he said.<br /><br />“Belay that, Mister Wallace,” Beaumont said, and grabbed Ives’ wrist. “Explain yourself, and leave the dramatics out of it.”<br /><br />Wallace glared at Ives as he spoke to the captain. “This fine gentleman wouldn’t let us stop to swap out the deaders. ‘Mission imperative’ I think he called it. So consequently, when we spin up to battlestations, there’s not enough juice in ‘em and we stalled out.”<br /><br />Beaumont turned to Ives. “Is this true?”<br /><br />Ives shrugged. “A calculated risk against losing the element of surprise. There would have been plenty of time to resupply the dynamos with a fresh team of deaders once we were on station, and we would be fully charged when our quarry emerged from the hills. I deemed it an acceptable risk.”<br /><br />“You deemed?” Beaumont said. “You deemed? Why did you not consult with me?”<br /><br />“You were at dinner,” Ives said. “It seemed important to you.” His face was impassive, but his voice carried an edge of distain.<br /><br />It would be easier all around to have him shot, Beaumont thought. He could list Ives as lost in action if they should ever find their way back to civilization. The man was worse than a fool. He didn’t know what he didn’t know.<br /><br />“In the future, Mister Ives, you will defer to me in matters of ship’s operation,” Beaumont said. “I do not mind the inconvenience.”<br /><br />Ives gave a curt nod, though with an indolent gleam in his eye. “I understand, Captain,” he said.<br /><br />“See that you do,” said Beaumont. He straightened and turned to his engineer. “How soon can we take her up, Mister Wallace?”<br /><br />Wallace’s shoulders slumped. “We’ve enough helium to inflate half of the envelope once repairs are finished, but not enough to lift her, Captain.”<br /><br />“I see,” Beaumont said. Chevket sighed and shook his head. Ives seemed taken aback at the somber crewmen.<br /><br />“We can find another source, surely,” he said.<br /><br />Beaumont looked to Chevket, silently granting his second in command permission to respond.<br /><br />“Sir,” he said to Ives, “Helium is essentially mined from layers trapped under the surface rock. It is an exceedingly rare occurrence to find such a pocket, and in any case, we haven’t the heavy equipment needed for such an endeavor.”<br /><br />Ives’ face reddened. “Are there no alternatives? Could we not use hot air like balloonists?”<br /><br />Wallace sniggered, stopping as both Chevket and Beaumont frowned in his direction. Chevket went on.<br /><br />“Hot air is inefficient. We could not possibly generate enough hot air to lift the<i> October Sky</i>."<br /><br />Wallace snorted again, and turned away as he fought for composure.<br /><br />“What about the Caliphate’s navy? Perhaps we could raid one of their stations for the helium.” Ives said.<br /><br />Beaumont paused to consider. “Perhaps, though we would likely run out of consumables before finding such a supply base. Furthermore, such a base would imply enough air traffic to necessitate refueling and resupply.” He shook his head. “I can’t see such a raid succeeding.”<br /><br />“Maybe with your men,” Ives said, quickly holding up his hands as Chevket and Wallace stiffened. “Able airmen all, no doubt, but my men are fighters. A smash and grab operation is what they excel at.”<br /><br />“The handful yet able to walk?” Chevket said.<br /><br />“A promise of money always finds them eager to shed their aches and maladies,” Ives said. <br /><br />“I don’t like it, Captain,” said Chevket. <br /><br />Beaumont removed a pipe from his jacket pocket and began plugging it with tobacco. “Were it not a plan relying on blind luck to find a hypothetical supply base, I would say we are desperate enough to try. We need a definite target before we commit our meagre resources.” He tamped the tobacco down and struck a match.<br /><br />“I don’t know about helium, but I know where we could get hydrogen,” Wallace said quietly.<br /><br />Beaumont cupped the flame and lit his pipe. He lifted his eyebrows in a question.<br /><br />“We find the nearest body of water and use the deaders to electrolyze hydrogen directly.” Wallace turned and pointed at the deaders chained outside the<i> October Sky’s</i> engine compartment. “Two of them, and a portable dynamo would be enough to fill an air cell each hour.”<br /><br />Chevket tilted his head, and counted to himself. “That would take forty hours to fill each lifting cell, plus transport time to and from the work site. Can we afford such exposure?” He looked at Beaumont.<br /><br />“Can we afford not to?” Ives said.<br /><br />Beaumont puffed, the spice-scented smoke and heat in his chest calming his nerves. “We may find that we need less than forty. Hydrogen is more efficient a lifting gas than helium, for all its more undesirable characteristics.”<br /><br />Wallace laughed. “Shouldn’t be a problem, so long as we avoid smoking, cooking flames, ornithopters bearing incendiary rounds, and electrical strikes.”<br /><br />“Quite,” Beaumont said. “What say you, Mister Ives?”<br /><br />“I see no other choice. My men and I will be coming along to provide security for the work party.”<br /><br />Beaumont inclined his head. “Make ready the excursion team, Mister Chevket.” Chevket went oddly stiff, and looked from Ives to his captain. Beaumont felt his distress, doubtlessly weighing the costs of speaking out against his captain’s decision when there was no alternative to suggest. There was a place for questioning, and a place for obedience; a good commander would know on which side of the line to fall.<br /><br />Chevket, to his credit, merely bowed. “Sir.” <br /><br />*<br /><br />Ives counted ammunition while Beaumont surveyed the lake below. At least the man had the good graces not to smirk. Why they had come under attack from one of the Caliph’s carriers was now obvious, as was its supply depot. A handful of huts and tents surrounded an old wooden building at the lake’s edge. Men in the distinctive belt-wrapped robes of the Caliphate went about the camp, some pushing carts from the wooden building to an area carved into the hill well beyond the tents. Beaumont’s eyes strained to make out the cart’s cargo: metal cylinders marked with the single red circle used for marking hydrogen.<br /><br />“Providence has given us an opportunity, Captain,” Ives said. “Our enemy has made our job that much the easier. There can be no more than two guarding that stockpile at the edge of camp. My men and I will secure the area.”<br /><br />Beaumont glanced at the ragged mercenaries crouched behind Ives, gaunt men with hard eyes who carried their rifles with ease. Beyond them, Chevket waited with Wallace and six crewmen. His own men had nearly collapsed at the end of the trail. They were in no condition to fight or squirrel away into the night with gas canisters. And yet, what could he do? It was only a matter of time before the Caliph’s forces found them. <br /><br />“There is something off about all this,” Beaumont said. “There has to be a hundred canisters in that gas dump, enough for a squadron of airships, but only a handful of men. There should be more.”<br /><br />“Perhaps they’re working inside the building,” Ives said. “Which is immaterial, Captain. We need only grab what we need and escape.”<br /><br />“For someone so curious aloft, you seem disinterested in what’s before you now.”<br /><br />“Priorities change, Captain. Our primary goal now has to be getting the<i> October Sky</i> functional, and getting back to Paradise City to make our report. The Council may then decide to send a force here to investigate, or to backtrack those deaders, but in either case, I cannot hope to continue my original mission with your crippled airship.”<br /><br />Beaumont bit off a retort, and wondered how many under Ives’ command contemplated shooting the man in the back. He looked to his crewmen, the portable dynamo, and the deaders rasping to no one in particular as they milled about at the end of their chains.<br /><br />“Mister Wallace, how many men would it take to bring the equipment and the deaders back to the ship?” Beaumont asked.<br /><br />Wallace pursed his lips as he thought. “Two for the dynamo, two more for the empty cells, and one for the deaders.”<br /><br />“Very well, take four men and return to the ship, but leave us your strongest backs. We’ll need them to haul the canisters once Agent Ives and his men secure the cave.”<br /><br />“And if the plan fails, sir?” Chevket murmured.<br /><br />Beaumont frowned and spread his hands. “Then let us hope Mister Wallace can locate another body of water before the Caliph’s forces find him.”<br /><br /> *<br /><br />They waited under the waning yet still bright moon. At midnight, Ives took his mercenaries into the shadows, and Chevket began marking the minutes. Beaumont and his crew would follow behind, waiting for Ives to take care of the guards. Beaumont patted his belt for the hundredth time, making sure his pistol was still there. He glanced at Chevket, who held up two fingers. Had it only been a minute since Ives had left? It seemed longer. His crew fidgeted, but that was to be expected. Aeronauts fought boldly in open skies, not skulking about like assassins. Though with luck, they would not have to fight at all, just haul enough hydrogen to make the <i>October Sky</i> fly again. <br /><br />When fear began gnawing at his belly, Beaumont buried it by focusing on his crew. He went from man to man, gripping each by the shoulder and exchanging a few words of encouragement or a joke. So long as he was dealing with the fear of others, he didn’t have to face his own.<br /><br />“Time, Captain,” said Chevket, putting the watch back into his pocket. Beaumont nodded and headed into the shadows along the path Ives had taken. The rustling of leaves and crunching of gravel underfoot followed him. Beaumont was aware of his own breathing and pounding heart as they crept along. Every swaying leaf, glittering stone, and inky shadow caught his eye. Beaumont kept scanning the ground before him, trying not to believe every large rock and blind corner held an ambush. Give him a clear sky and a brace of cannon any day, he thought.<br /><br />He came within view of the cave and stopped. The camp was dark and quiet, the wooden building hummed with yellow light escaping through gaps in the walls. He couldn’t make out whether Ives had succeeded or failed; he couldn’t see a soul anywhere. <br /><br />“Captain?” Chevket whispered.<br /><br />“No sign,” Beaumont said. “We’ll give Ives a few minutes.”<br /><br />Chevket rocked from foot, showing more nervousness than Beaumont had ever known from him. To be expected, Beaumont thought, Chevket was no more comfortable with skulking around than he was.<br /><br />A low whistle sounded, and Ives emerged from the shadows. He held up his palms, and Beaumont lowered the pistol he hadn’t known he had drawn.<br /><br />“Easy, Captain,” Ives said. “We’re clear.”<br /><br />Beaumont holstered his pistol. “I didn’t hear a thing. My compliments.”<br /><br />Ives nodded. “Come along.” <br /><br />Beaumont signaled his men. Ives had disappeared back into the shadows by the time Beaumont turned around. They followed the valley wall to the cave entrance. Two of Ives’ mercenaries wearing the head scarves of the Caliph’s forces paced back and forth, surreptitiously waving the air crew inside. They stepped around dark logs that Beaumont realized were the bodies of the former guards. <br /><br />The cave, little more than an excavated hole, held about a hundred dull silver cylinders, sweating in the cool air. Beaumont wondered at the naval potential stacked before him. Enough gas for a dozen zeppelins, or enough gas to bring down the ridgeline on their heads should a stray spark and leaky valve find each other. Ives and another of his men waited before the pile with gas cylinders in hand. Beaumont reached for an offered cylinder, but Ives leaned forward.<br /><br />“Remember, Captain, that this is the most dangerous part. Don’t hurry, don’t be sloppy.” Ives released the cylinder. Beaumont grunted as he took on the load. The canister wasn’t heavy so much as it was awkward to carry and slick with condensation. <br /><br />“One canister apiece, Mister Chevket, and have the men mind their grips; these bottles are slippery devils.”<br /><br />“Shall I have them wrapped in our coats?” Chevket said.<br /><br />“Good man. Make it so.”<br /><br />Chevket removed his jacket and showed the others the idea. Canisters wrapped, they set out of the cave when Chevket tripped over a dead guard. His canister rang like a bell when it hit the ground and rolled free toward the camp. Chevket’s eyes went wide and he turned to Beaumont in horror. Tent flaps rustled, and shouts went up.<br /><br />“Quickly!” Beaumont shouted, and waved his crew forward. He pointed to Agent Ives and the mercenaries. “You lot, cover them!”<br /><br /> Something shouldered past him, and Chevket’s lanky form disappeared into the cave.<br /><br />“Come back, man!” <br /><br />“Need every canister,” he shouted over his shoulder, “I’ll catch you up!”<br /><br />Beaumont made to go after him, but a hand grabbed him by the collar. He whirled, ready to strike, and nearly punched Ives in the face.<br /><br />“He’s right, Captain,” Ives said. “He’s got strong legs. We need to go now.”<br /><br />From the camp, the shouting came closer. Beaumont cursed and ran after his men, the cylinder on his shoulder bouncing with every stride. Shots rang out, whizzing by his head. <br /><br />Damn fools, Beaumont thought, one shot in the wrong place would turn the whole valley into a–<br /><br />A fireball erupted before him, his men appearing as disintegrating shadows against the glare. A force picked him up and threw him into the night sky. He fell through the darkness, seemingly forever. Wadehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08229835689380630612noreply@blogger.com0